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MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST    CHART 

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1.25 


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^     APPLIED  ifvHGE     Inc 


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Prcsf^nted    to    THP    LIBRARY 

of  the  U.  N.  a 

By  /^r.-l    »    .     ,\  1^.        /        :    y    / 


THE   /?,m.  .V„<«,e  are  the   fine  rt„wer  of  CanJuecfs  poetry 
In  ti.ern  he  mingles  l„ve  and  pain  and  classic  knowledge  with 
more  beauty   than    Hrown.njj,   wkh    ,nore   humanity   than 
Tennyson,  and  frc,,„ently  with  a  touch  more  r.mdcrn  than  eitlier 
It  IS  natural  to  seek  an  Knt'lish  equivalent  m  stu.Ivin^'  the  p-et  of 
another  languaKe,  hut  it  is  nevertheless  rather  a  dull  way  of  get- 
tmK  at  the  essence  of  his  meaning.     When  we  have  said  that  Car- 
du.x-i  was  as  fu  1  of  erudhion  and  consequently  s,  metimcs  as  obscure 
as  Brownm,;  that  h.s  lyr.cs  were  as  mu.ual  as  those  of  Tennyson; 
that,  great  soul  that  he  was.  h.  yet  a.lmired  and  miitated  the  petty 
.ron.es  of  He.ne;  that  he  was  Byronic  in  his  scorn  for  his  own  verse^ 
that  he  was  as  democratic  as  our  own  Walt  Whitman-we  have 
no  man,  but  a  patchwork  qtult  to  cover  him.     Better  to  look  into 
Carducc,  s  l.ttle  frank  eyes,  wnnkling  w.th  mirth  and  pain  beneath 
Ins  broad  brow:  at  his  large  nose,  full  of  character;  to  guess  at  the 
wh.n.sical  twist  of  his  mouth,  Ix^neath  the  grizzled  beard      It  is 
easy  to  read,  in  his  jwrtraits.  tlie  great  generous  democratic  soul 
of  the  man,  .mpat.ent  of  aflfectation  or  deceit  or  cowardice,  faith- 
ful fnend,  glonous  hater  and  passionate  patriot:  a  lover,  too-  but 
h.s  poetry  reflects  only  the  impersonal  love  of  classic  and  natural 
t)eauty.     L.na,    Lalage,    lole,   are   lovely,   evanescent,   impalpable 
beings,  no  more  real  than  the  nymphs  and  goddesses  of  whom  he 
sings. 


i 

,    t 


!i 

M 

11 


THE   RIME   NUOVE 
OF  aOSUE  CARDUCCI 

TranaUted     from     the    Italian    by 
LAURA    FULLERTON    GILBERT 


BOSTON :    RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

TOBONTO:      THE    COPP  ■  CLARK  CO..  UMITED. 


roPTKIOBT   1»1>1  BT   KlCMtin   (I     IllDntR 

All  Kkihti  Bihiiviii 


••    i^   A    ,y 


Minr  in    IBK    rviTFP   -T*Tm  or  lUBBiri 
THE    GOBHAM     PRESS.     HOSTON,   U.    9.   A. 


To 

Larry,  Rrikioe  and  Anna  Elizabeth 

from 

Their  Mothar 


I 

i 


1 


^1 

i 
1 


TRANSLATOR'S  FOREWORD 

These  translations  from  Carducci  follow  no  the- 
ory I  cannot  claim  that  thev  are  absolutely  lit- 
eral, yet  if  I  have  occasionally  substituted  a  para, 
phrase  for  a  translation,  it  has  been  only  in  single 
Imes  or  phrases,  never  more.  It  has  been  easier  for 
me  to  retam  the  original  metres,  as  nearly  as  Eng- 
lish can  reproduce  the  Italian,  because  the  song 
would  not  smg  itself  to  me  otherwise ;  and  I  have 
tried  to  echo,  however  faintly,  the  song  as  it  sounded 
to  me. 

To  translate  only  the  Rirne  Nuove.  I  am  aware 
gives  a  somewhat  one-sided  view  of  one  who  has 
been  called  the  greatest  poet  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Carducci,  "the  poet  of  the  Risorgimento,"  is 
not  to  be  found  in  the  Rime  Nuove.  and  to  many 
of  his  lovers,  particularly  to  Italians,  this  may  seem 
to  leave  out  so  much  that  is  Carduccian,  as  to  re- 
duce the  value  of  the  translation  immensely. 

Yet  the  purpose  of  a  translation  is  pre-eminently 
to  arouse  interest  in  the  original,  and  if  the  quest  of 
the  unknown  adds  zest  to  the  seeking,  so  much  the 
tJetter.  Ihen,  too,  I  would  not  translate  unless  I 
could  translate  con  amore,  and  the  only  collections 
of  the  works  of  Carducci  that  are  of  equal  import- 
ance with  tht  Rime  Nuove—tht  Odi  Bar  bare  and 
tne  Kime  e  Ritmt— glorious  reproductions  though 
they  are  of  the  old  Greek  and  Latin  metres,  tre- 
menaous  in  their  grasp  of  history,  and  the  power  of 
painting  it  in  words,  yet  do  not  tempt  the  translator 
as  dotheRtme  Nuove.  This  is  partly  because  it  is 
so  difficult  to  put  the  classic  metres  into  English, 

3 


Traxsi.ator's  Foreword 


partly  because  the  attempt  is  almost  inevitably  unsuc- 
cessful.    As  Tennyson  says 
"These  lame  hexameters  the  strong  wing'd  music 

of  Homer? 
No,  but  a  most  burlesque  barbarous  experiment." 

It  is  the  Carducci  who  loved  the  natural  beauty 
that  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes,  and  interpreted  it 
through  the  classics,  whom  we  find  and  love  in  the 
Rime  Nuove;  loving  him  only  the  more  because  the 
rare  glimpses  he  gives  us  of  his  own  emotional  ex- 
periences show  by  their  very  rarity  the  depth  of  his 
love  and  sorrow. 

As  published  by  Zanichelli  in  1901,  the  complete 
volume  of  Carducci's  poetical  works  is  divided  in  a 
way  of  which  he  says:  "In  the  Juvenilia,  I  am  the 
squire  of  the  classics ;  in  the  Levia  Gravia,  I  keep 
my  vigil  at  arms;  in  the  Iambs  and  Epodes,  I  pur- 
sue my  knightly  venture  at  all  hazards" ;  and  he 
might  have  continued:  "With  my  lance,  A  Satana, 
I  thrust  at  the  abuses  of  the  church;  in  the  Rime 
Nuove,  I  employ  the  spoils  of  war  in  the  pleasures 
of  peace ;  and  in  the  Odi  Barbare  and  Rime  e  Ritmi, 
I  come  into  my  heritage." 

The  Rime  Nuove  are  the  fine  flower  of  Car- 
ducci's poetry.  In  them  he  mingles  love  and  pain 
and  classic  knowledge  with  more  beauty  than 
Browning,  with  more  humanity  than  Tennyson,  and 
frequently  with  a  touch  more  modern  than  either. 
It  is  natural  to  seek  an  English  equivalent  in  study- 
ing the  poet  of  another  language,  but  it  is  never- 
theless rather  a  dull  way  of  getting  at  the  essence 
of  his  meaning.  When  we  have  said  that  Carducci 
was  as   full  of  erudition   and  consequently  some- 

4 


Traxsi^a  tor's  Foreword 

times  as  obscure  as  Browning;  that  his  lyrics  were 
as  musical  as  those  of  Tennyson;  that,  great  soul 
that  he  was,  he  yet  admired  and  imitated  the  petty 
ironies  of  Heine;  that  he  was  Byronic  in  his  scorn 
for  his  own  verse ;  that  he  was  as  democratic  as  our 
own  Walt  Whitman — we  have  no  man,  but  a  patch- 
work quilt  to  cover  him.  Better  to  look  into  Car- 
ducci's  little  frank  eyes,  wrinkling  with  mirth  and 
pain  beneath  his  broad  brow ;  at  his  large  nose,  full 
of  character;  to  guess  at  the  whimsical  twist  of  his 
mouth,  beneath  the  grizzled  beard.  It  is  easy  to 
read,  in  his  portraits,  the  great  generous  democratic 
soul  of  the  man,  impatient  of  affectation  or  deceit 
or  cowardice,  faithful  friend,  glorious  hater  and  pas- 
sionate patriot:  a  lover,  too;  but  his  poetry  reflects 
only  the  impersonal  love  of  classic  and  natural 
beauty.  Lina,  Lalage,  lole,  are  lovely,  evanescent, 
impalpable  beings,  no  more  real  than  the  nymphs 
and  goddesses  of  whom  he  sings: 

"A  Cristo  in  faccia  irrigidi  ne  i  marmi 
II  puro  fior  di  lor  bellezze  ignude: 
Ne  i  carmi,  o  Lina,  spira  sol  nei  i  carmi 
Lor  gioventude." 

Carducci  was  born  at  Val  di  Castello,  in  Versilia, 
on  July  27,  1835.  His  father  was  Michele  Car- 
ducci, a  physician,  whom  he  mentions  thus  in  his 
lecture  on  Alessandro  Manzoni:  'My  father  was 
a  fervent  Manzonian,  also  Carbonaro  and  of  those 
few  in  Tuscany  who  for  the  deeds  of  1831  *  suf- 
fered imprisonment  and  exile."     Leaving  the  Ver- 

'  The  Romagnol  revolt. 


.u 


Translator's  Foreword 

silia  for  the  Tuscan  Maremma  when  Carducci  was 
three  years  old,  the  Carducci  family  lived  among 
peasants  in  Bolgheri.  He  gives  this  vivid  descrip- 
tion of  the  youth  which  he  calls  his  "trisi  prima- 
vera":  "Beside  the  works  of  Manzoni,-  I  ,ead  the 
Iliad,  the  i?!neid,  'Jerusalem,'  Roman  history  and 
the  history  of  the  French  revolution — the  ^  ems 
with  ineffable  rapture,  the  history  oblivious  of  every- 
thing. *  *  *  With  my  brothers  and  other 
boys  of  the  neighborhood,  I  organized  republics, 
forever  republics.  •  •  •  Our  republic  con- 
sisted of  tumultuous  assemblies,  and  battles  with 
sticks  and  stones,  with  which  we  intended  to  repro- 
duce the  finest  deeds  of  the  golden  age  of  Rome, 
and  of  the  French  Revolution.  In  these  represen- 
tations, however,  respect  for  history  was  not  allowed 
to  interfere  with  lively  dramatic  effect.  What 
blessed  stones  I  sent  at  Cajsar  one  day  when  he 
crossed  the  Rubicon !  That  day  the  tyrant  hid  I 
know  not  where  and  the  republic  was  saved. 
*  *  *  But  the  echo  of  these  great  deeds  once 
reached  the  ears  of  my  father,  who,  unrnnved  by 
my  honorable  wounds,  condemned  me  to  long  im- 
prisonment, during  which  he  appeared,  and,  leaving 
three  books  upon  the  table,  said  severely:  'Read 
these,  and  be  persuaded  that  the  classic  taratantara 
is  not  for  these  times.'  The  three  books  were:  the 
'Morale  Cattolica'  of  Manzoni,  'The  Duties  of 
Man'  by  Pellico,  and  the  Life  of  S.  Giuseppe  Cala- 
sanzio.     What  idea  my  Manzonian  father  had  in 


'Carducci    learned    later    to    detest    Manzoni's    facile 
romanticism,  calling  his  work  "hair-dresser's  poetry." 

6 


Translator's  P'oreword 


1 


J 


giving  the  'Morale  Cattolica'  to  a  boy,  I  do  not 
know.  I  do  know  that  henceforth  Morale  Cat- 
tolica and  friars,  duties  of  men  and  of  saints,  were 
for  me  the  same  thing;  I  hated,  hated  them  all  with 
a  Catalinic  hatred." 

That  Carducci  was  to  become  and  to  remain  a 
purely  subjective  poet,  this  description  clearly 
proves.  Read  the  sonnets  on  Homer  and  on  Virgil  ; 
the  ^a  Ira  series;  the  Davanti  San  Guido;  these 
echo  the  "giovenile  incanto"  as  surely  ss  the  A 
Satana  and  Rimembranze  di  Scuola  echo  his  young 
hatred  of  Catholicism. 

The  "A  Satana"  ^  has  been  translated  so  often 
that  even  aside  from  the  fact  that  it  is  not  among 
the  Rime  Nuove  I  should  not  have  included  it.  It 
created  an  enormous  sensation  when  first  published, 
but  would  not  be  taken  very  seriously  now.  Car- 
ducci says  of  it,  in  his  essay  Critica  ed  Arte:  "Is  it 
true  or  is  it  not  true  that  the  Catholic  Church  and 
all  Christian  churches,  has  and  have  always  cursed 
as  Satanic  pride,  as  works  of  diabolic  instigation,  free 
thought,  science,  all  human,  natural  feelings,  all 
thmgs  lovely?  •  •  •  True  or  not,  that  Greg- 
ory XVI  called  steam  the  invention  of  the  devil? 
You  will  then  that  all  these  things  be  satanic?  Of 
Satan  let  them  be.     Long  live  Satan!" 

Carducci  does  not  mean  to  uphold  vice  against 
virtue,  only  to  uphold  truth  against  falsehood;  or 
as  one  who,  priest-ridden,  cries  "back  to  Nature." 

'  The  best  translation  of  the  hymn  to  Satan  which  I 
have  seen  is  bv  Mr.  G.  L.  Bickersteth,  whose  scholarly 
book  is  the  most  comprehensive  English  study  of  Carducci. 


Translator's  Foreword 

But  the  priests  raised  the  cry  of  "Atheist"  and  that, 
as  usual,  brought  fame,  Carducci's  first  fame,  which 
he  was  to  augment  later  not  only  by  his  writings, 
but  by  those  political  activities  which  made  him  the 
idol  of  Young  Italy. 

Superficially,  the  literary  aims  of  Carducci  were 
those  of  Lorenzo  di  Medici  and  his  fellow  human- 
ists; both  loved  the  classics  and  wanted  their  re- 
vival But  the  Platonic  school  founded  by  the  di 
Medici  was  a  literary  cult,  and  not  "Su  dal  popolo 
dal  cuore."  Carducci,  on  the  other  hand,  first  made 
the  classic  revival  popular.  In  a  way  it  seems 
strange  that  one  of  Carducci's  fiery  revolutionary 
originality  should  have  been  such  a  lover  of  form, 
and  one  wonders  what  sort  of  Pegasus  his  would 
have  been  without  this  bridle  of  classicism. 

Until  he  was  twelve  years  old,  Carducci  was 
practically  untaught  except  by  his  father  and 
mother.  After  the  revolution  of  '48,  the  family 
settled  in  Florence,  Here  Carducci  went  to  school 
for  the  first  time.  After  the  six  years'  course  of 
Wie  S-uole  Pie,  he  went  to  the  Scuole  Normale  at 
Pisa,  where  he  prepared  himself  to  teach.  "Through 
all  this  period,"  says  D'Ancona,  "  he  knew  the 
pinch  of  poverty,  yet  found  it  an  efficient  goad  to 
work,  so  much  the  more  necessary  as  he  was  the 
only  support  and  sole  hope  of  the  family.  His 
youth  was  deprived  of  every  comfort,  except  for  the 
aflFection  of  his  family  and  a  few  friends;  he  was 
embittered  by  the  mysterious  death  of  his  brother,* 

*  Dante    Carducci,    who    killed    himself    when    he    was 
only  twenty-one. 


Translator's  Foreword 

and  immersed  in  study,  austere,  hard,  uniform. 
But  he  felt  even  then  the  sweet  and  tormenting 
aspiration  to  glory,  though  compelling  himself  to 
hide  it  always  with  magnanimous  reserve;  nor  did 
he  ever  show  ostentation  or  pride  in  it  later,  when 
he  was  universally  conceded  to  possess  it.  Do  you 
remember  ? 

'Ahi,  da'  prim'  aniii,  o  gloria,  nascosi  del  mio  cuore 
Ne  superbi  silenzi  il  tuo  superbo  amore.' 
*  *  *  *  He  entered  thus  into  life:  his  mind  rich 
with  much  knowledge,  many  memories  and  fan- 
tasies; in  his  heart  the  gathering  storms  of  the 
period,  and  his  own ;  panting  for  glory  for  himself, 
greatness  for  his  countr}'.     *     »     • 

"The  political  virtue  of  Carducci  unfolds  through 
a  stretch  of  forty  years,  and  is  the  intimate  history 
of  a  high  soul  and  a  noble  intellect,  and  is  the 
story  also  of  an  age  of  which  his  thought  and  work 
are  reflections.  F^ortune  smiled  on  him,  in  that  he 
was  bom  at  the  finest  moment  of  Italian  life:  in  a 
moment  of  which  the  many  generations  from  the 
fifth  century  down  had  not  seen  the  equal.  ♦  *  * 
The  generation  to  which  he  belonged  was  that 
which  found  Italy  a  slave  and  left  her  mistress  of 
herself."  His  were  the  times  of  the  Risorgimento, 
"when  Italy  found  herself  again  in  the  heart  of  a 
Mazzini,  the  eloquence  of  a  Gioberti,  the  wisdom 
of  a  Cavour,  the  arm  of  a  Garibaldi ;  all  of  whom 
gathered  around  the  ship  of  the  first  Soldier  of 
Independence,  V'ictor  Emanuel."  (From  the 
"Commemorazione"  di  Alessandro  D'Ancona.) 

These  forty  years  were  for  Carducci  a  constant 


Transmtor's  Foreword 

ascent  to  the  most  difficult  hc.Khts  of  poetry  and 
prose  lo  read  lus  prose  works  is  to  enjoy  the 
most  brilliant  mordant  and  witt>'  cssavs  written  by 
a  modern  Italian;  to  know  them  would  make  un* 
a  master  of  the  erudition  of  Italy,  both  ancient  and 
modern. 

From  1856  to  I860  Carducci  occupied  educa- 
tional posts  at  San  Miniato,  Arezzo.  and  Pistoia 
studyinK  writing,  publishing  and  talking  politics' 
It  was  during  this  period  that  he  was  married.  In 
1860  he  was  called  to  Rologna.  where  he  staved 
until  his  death  in  1907. 

The  first  revelation  of  bis  poetical  attitude  was 
made  in  the  San  Miniato  volume  published  in  1857 
Then  political  activities  intervened.  From  being 
a  loyal  supporter  of  the  constitutional  monarchy, 
with  republican  leanings,  he  became  an  evtreme 
Kcpubhcan,  and  his  prose  and  poetrv  of  this  period 
made  him  so  offensive  to  the  government  that  only 
a  change  of  ministry  prevented  his  removal  from 
Bologna.  Then  he  published  the  Levia  Gravia  of 
which  he  sa\s  m  the  prose  essav  of  the  same  name 
uritten  some  ^ ears  later.  "This  is  the  weightv  levity 
and  forceful  and  f^gurntive  pretension  of  the  times, 
that  yet  contained  fanciful  conception  and  elegance' 
Here  one  sees  the  poet  who  has  no  faith  in  poetrv 
or  in  himsflf,  who  yet  tries  to  write:  he  attempts 
novelty,  \et  has  not  the  courage  to  break  with  old 
customs;  be  disagrees  with  the  majoritv,  and  fol- 
lows It;  he  confuses  matter  with  art  or  sets  them 
against  each  other:     *     *     *     he  utters  a  cry  and 


10 


Travslator's  Foreword 


space.     Re-reading 


fears   his  voice   that   is   lost   in 

myself,  I  judge  as  of  one  dead." 

The  Levia  Gravia  contains  manv  marriage  poem?, 
and  seems  consciously  to  omit  anvthing  that  touched 
the  poets  own  beliefs  and  convictions.     The  book 
was   naturally   unsuccessful.     It   was   fo!'      ed   by 
Giambi  ed  Epodi.  which  cover  the  years  fro.n  1867 
to  1872.     "These  are  spirited  rh\mcs,"  says  D'An- 
cona,   "dominated  by  anger  and  bile,  and   feverish 
love  of  country.     They  are  the  faithful  echo  of  the 
generous    impatience    of    an    invincible,    tenacious 
patriotism,  that  docs  not  see  nor  measure  obstacles, 
and  which,  seeing  that  effective  reality  differs  from 
vague  dreams,  bursts  into  invective  arid  anathema." 
These  poems  are  of  a  virulent,  sometimes  blasphe- 
mous partisanship.     It  would  be  impossible  to  repro- 
duce  in  a  translation  the  virility  of  the  Italian,  or  to 
dignify  to  Anglo-Saxon   restraint  the  words  with 
which   he   scourged    Italy   to  action.     His   fervid 
restiess  spirit,  rebel  against  the  wearv  indolence  of 
Uld  Italy,  seemed  to  explode  in  words  and  phrases 
that  pierced  and  stung,  and  even   D'Ancona,  his 
tnend    resented  his  "La  nostra  patria  i  vile."  cry 
though  It  was  of  sorrowing,  despairing  love.     Lov- 
ing his  countiy  with  the  passion  of  a  Garibaldi,  he 
yet   realized   her   weakness   with    the   sanity   of   a 
Cavour,   and   Young   Italy   welcomed,   adored   and 
crowned  him  the  poet  of  the  Resorgimento. 

The  Nuove  Poesie,  published  in  1873,  betrayed 
a  new  Carducci ;  one  who  had  studied  and  learned 
much  from  the  Germans,  one  whose  political  atti- 
tude had  not  so  much  changed,  as  it  had  grown  in» 

H 


Translator's  Foreword 

a   grntler  maturity,   but  above  all,   one  who  had 
known  sorrow:   he  had   lost   in   the  same  year  his 
mother,  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  and  his  little  three- 
year-old  son,  "around  whom,"  he  says,  "were  en- 
twined all  my  joys,  all  my  hopes,  all  my  future." 
"Sure  indication  of  the  quieting  of  inward  storms, 
came  the  Rime  S'uovf."  says  D'Ancona.     "These 
were  published  in  '89,  a  string  of  gems  of  exquisite 
perfection.     The  most  tender  affections,   the  most 
serene  images  and  recollections  of  youth  prevail  in 
the  Primavere  Ellentche.  in  the  Idillio  Manmmnnn, 
in  the  Davanti  San  Guido.     Here  ancient  and  mod- 
ern,   disdain    and    love,    the   external   and    interna! 
world,  the  ideal  and  the  real,  are  equally  balanced, 
or  of  former  discord  remains  only  a  fleeting  trace." 
During  these  years  Carducci   had   attained   the 
height  of   his   fame   and   popularity.      His   lecture- 
room  was  thronged  with  young  men,  whom  he  not 
only  intensely  interested,  but  whom  he  inspired  with 
the  deepest  affection.     What  a  charming  companion 
he  could  be  is  shown  in  Barboni's  Col  Carducci  in 
Marfn:via.     When  he  gave  the  Odi  Rarhare  to  the 
public  they  were  considered  as  Carducci  expected, 
harsh  and  unmusical.     It  was  not  for  novelty  that 
he  chose  these  forms,  but  because  he  wanted  to  find 
a  form  fitted  to  his  conceptions.     Carducci  says  of 
them:  "I  have  called  these  poems  barbarous  because 
they  would  so  sound  to  the  ears  and  judgment  of 
the  Greeks  and  Romans,  although  I  have  wished  to 
compose  them   in  the  metrical   forms  belonging  to 
the  poetry  of  these  nations;  and  because  they  will, 
too  truly,  so  sound  to  verv  many  Italians,  although 


- — -^  '-* 


^.Mtzsz'^^^mm^m 


Translator's  Foreword 

they  are  composed  and  harmonized  in  Italian  verses 
and  accents."  One  of  his  critirs  has  said:  "Car- 
ducci  went  back  to  ancient  Sapphics  and  Alcaics 
because  th  y  necessarily  imply  high  and  serious  sub- 
ject matter.  WTiat  passes  well  in  an  inferior  metre, 
IS  quickly  seen  to  be  rubbish  in  a  Sapphic  ode.  But 
the  accented  syllables  in  Carducci's  verse  do  not 
correspond  from  verse  to  verse.  In  fact  they  are 
tar  from  bemg  slavish  reproductions,  and  thev  arc 
not  quantitative  like  those  of  the  ancient  poets.*" 

What  the  Italians  call  morbidezza  (luxury  wan- 
tonness) IS  not  to  be  found  in  his  works  and  he  who 
loved  Sappho  and  Catullus  considered  their  foulness 
detestable. 

T\\c  Rime  e  Ritmi  show  Carducci  as  the  poet  of 

Wc  n/.K  '^"''-  •  ^^  "/''"  ^"""^  ^°  ^"^g^"  the 
T^  /,n,=V''''"^'"°  ^"^  ^'O"^'^  hav«  rejo'ced  that 
today  (1915)  ,t  seems  probable  that  it  will  soon  be 
once  more  Italian. 

Many  honours  came  to  him  in  his  old  age.     In 
1895,    the    Uniyersit>'   of    Bologna   celebrated    the 
thirty-f^fth   anniversary-  or  his  professorship  there 
and  he  was  crowned  with  a  laurel  plucked  from' 
Dante  s  tomb. 

i9nA/!?^'^'  ^^*  g2ye™ment  voted  him  a  pension  of 
12,000  lire.  In  December.  1906,  he  was  given  the 
iNobel  prize  for  literature. 

He  died  on  the  sixteenth  of  Februarv  1907  of 
pneumonia  and  Chiarini  says:  "After  the  death  of 
the  great  king,  after  that  of  Garibaldi,  after  the 

mJtre"  ^    ^    Bicker,t«h>  excellent  study  of  Carducci', 


Transistor's  Forbworo 

(Irath  of  the  good  kinp,  no  other  national  misfor- 
tune has  touched  ><>  deepK    the  heart  of   Italy." 

His  library  was  bought  by  Queen  Margherita,  of 
whom  he  had  been  a  devoted  admirer  sii.cc  his 
presentation  to  her  in  1878.  In  fact  many  of  his 
political  opponents  decl-ind  that  his  gentler  atti- 
tude toward  the  government  dated  from  that  time. 
The  queen  also  bought  his  house  and  presented  it 
to  the  nation. 

Although  Florence  offered  him  a  tomb  in  Santa 
Croce.  his  family  preferred  that  he  should  be  buried 
where  so  much  of  his  life  had  been  spent,  and  he 
lies  in  the  beautiful  cemetery  outside  of  Bologna. 

L.  F.  G 


u 


CONTENTS 

To  Rhyme . 

To  the  Sonnet     ......*'  yl 

The  Sonnet      .     .                         ^ 

Homer— r                   ^^ 

Homer-II       .     .     .     .' ^^ 

ffomer— III     .     .     " 'I 

The  Night       .                    "^ 

A  Talk  With  the  Trees          ^     '     "          •     '  29 

The  Ox       .                              ^^ 

Virgil      .     .                ^^ 

"Fimere  Mersit  Acerbo"                        '     "     "  ,,, 

A  Winter's  Night     ......'     '  ^l 

Fipsole 

Donatello's  St.  George H 

St.  Mary  of  the  Anp"'                 „ 

Dante '              ^^ 

Pwtic  Justice l^ 

A,                                             *'"•••«,  3t 

^  nnotatmg  Petrarch  ^ 

'I  hold  Your  Coun  »ls  in  Contempt'"'         "     '  41 

Before  a  Portrait  ot  Ariosto    ....  42 

The  Sun  and  Love "     '  .- 

Morning  and  Night       .....  44 

"Here  Love  Doth  Reign"            ^c 

A  Vision ■ J^ 

Myth  and  Truth      . T? 

Beside  the  Sea      .     .          ^l 

To  an  Ass       .                    Z 

49 

19 


I 


To  a  Baby  Girl        50 

To  Mile.  Maria  L 51 

An  Epic  Moment -*- 

Martin  Luther ~'^ 

The  Press  and  the  Reformation      ....  54 

Now  and    Always 55 

Crossing  the  Tuscan  Maremma      ....  56 

Before   a   Portrait 57 

An  Alpine  Morning 58 

A  Rose  and  a  Maid ^^ 

A  Cup  to  April        ^- 

Classic  Spring "' 

Romantic  Autumn ^" 

Old  Tears        ^^ 

Nostalgia ^^ 

Winter-Wear>' 70 

Vignette '' 

^          •  72 

Pan.neism         

Anacreontica  Romantica '•' 

A  Mav  Song ^^5 

Serenata       

77 
Mattinata 

78 

Dipartita '" 

79 
Disperata ••     • 

Ballata  Dolorosa       ^0 

Before   a   Cathedral 81 

To   the   Dead ^^ 

San  Martino " 

In  Carnia ^^ 

IR 


A  Vision gO 

To  Alexander  D'Ancona 90 

Hellenic  Springtimes 92 

(I.     ^olian) 
(II.     Dorian) 
(III.     Alexandrian) 

A  Branch  of  Laurel 101 

Memories  of  School 103 

An   Idyl  of  May 105 

An  Idyl  of  the  Maremma 108 

Classicism  and  Romanticism HI 

The  Moon's  Revenge 113 

Da  La  Qual  par  Ch'  Una  Stella  Si  Mova     .  115 

Before  San  Guido 117 

A  Night  in   May 123 

To  the  Author  of  "Mago" 125 

The  Two  Titans 127 

The  Legend  of  Theodoric 130 

The  Rustic  Commune 134 

On  the  Fields  of  Marengo 136 

Communal  Feud 139 

The  Lullaby  of  Charles  V 146 

To  Victor  Hugo 149 

Qa  Ira  Sonnets 153 

Farewell 155 

Notes PI 


17 


THE    RIME    NUOVE   OF 
GIOSUE  CARDUCCI 


TO  RHYME 

Hail,  O  rhyme!  with  art  how  sweet, 
On  his  fair  sheet. 

The  troubadour  doth  seek  thee ; 
Yet  sparkling,  shining,  bubbling  o'er 
From  their  heart's  core. 

The  common  folk  bespeak  thee. 

Thou  art  sped  'twixt  kiss  and  kiss 
In  the  bliss 

Of  dizzy,  whirling  dances. 
Wherein  two  turns  may  harmonize 
Two  trembling  sighs, 

While  hope  at  memory  glances! 

How  joyfully  didst  thou  resound 
As  the  ground 

Shook  beneath  the  reaper's  feet! 
Evening's  heart,  serene,  awaiting. 
Palpitating, 

Echoed  with  a  triple  beat. 

Abominably  thou  didst  roar 
The  Conqueror 

On  ancient  battle-fields. 
While  the  lances,  red  with  blood. 
Thundered  loud. 

Beating  on  iron  shields. 


>s.i 


11 


Thou  didst  hear  the  crashing  brand 
Of  Roland, 

Bend  and  break  at  Roncevale. 
Blowing  on  his  mighty  horn 
Night  and  morn 

With  his  name  thou  didst  fill  the  vale. 

Then  between  thy  gripping  knees 
Thou  didst  seize 

Babieca,  fierce  and  black. 
Twixt  the  gonfalcons  that  hover 
We  discover 

Cid — and  thou — upon  her  back! 

In  the  fair  Rhone's  fast-flowing  wave 
Then  didst  thou  lave 

Thy  dusty  hair,  O  Muse; 
With  nightingales  thou  didst  compete 
Siren-sweet 

In  the  gardens  of  Toulouse. 

Thou  hast  set  the  sail  of  love 
White  above 

The  prow  of  Rudel's  ship; 
The  dying  kiss  of  love  dost  give 
And  receive 

From  his  Contessa's  lip. 

Turn,  O  turn  to  other  shores 
Thus  implores 

Dante,  pious  and  austere; 
He  takes  thee  down  to  realms  infernal 
Round  the  mount  eternal, 

And  then  ascends  before  his  God  to  appear. 


2i 


Hail,  O  empress  most  serene, 
Happy  queen 

Of  Latin  rhymed  and  metrical! 
A  rebel  I,  yet  would  adore  thee, 
Bow  before  thee, 

And  to  thy  high  scat  recall. 


Honored  of  my  ancestry, 
Thou  art  to  me, 

Even  as  they  held  thee,  sacred. 
Hail,  O  rhyme,  give  me  a  flower 
For  true  love's  dower. 

And  a  thunderbolt  for  hatred  1 


i 


f 


as 


II 

TO  THE  SONNET 

O  brief  yet  ample  verse!     Thee,  all  a-dream 

Dante  profiled  in  fair  intaglios 

Midst  other-worldly  thoughts;  thee,  with  a  rose 
Petrarca  plucked  beside  a  running  stream. 

And  then  in  epic  splendor  thou  didst  gleam 

Clothed  by  Torquato.     Harsh,  thou  didst  disclose 
Beneath  the  hand  that  carved  with  mighty  blowf 

Our  fleeting  life  in  marble,  the  same  theme. 


T^  .^svh' '. 


^r.  A'.'cn'c  shore 


Arena  strange — thou  madest  pilgrimage 
Memorial  of  his  sorrow's  mystery. 

English  and  Lusiad  Virgils  fancied  thee; 

But  Bavius,  whose  great  verses  howl  with  lage, 
Hates  thee,  O  sonnet!     Hence  I  love  thee  more. 


24 


Ill 

THE  SONNET 


Dante  adorned  it  with  flutt'ring  cherubim, 
Gold,  azure,  in  the  ambient  atmosphere; 

The  plaint  of  Petrarch's  heart  it  was  to  him, 
A  murmuring  stream  of  verses  sweet  to  hear. 

Virgil's  ambrosia,  honry  of  Horace  brim 

Torquato's  verse,  begged  from  those  muses  dear 

To  Tibur:     Against  vile  slaves  and  tyrants  grim 
Alfieri  cast  it  like  a  piercing  spear. 

Then  Ugo  made  it  sing  the  lilting  lays 
Of  nightingales  in  Ionian  cypress-trees 
And  girt  it  with  th'  acanthus  of  his  heart. 

Sixth  am  I  not,  but  last,  and  my  lone  days 
I  spend  beside  the  tombs,  remembering  these 
— Their  ecstasies,  tears,  perfume,  ire  and  art. 


11 


Jl 


I 

I 


29 


IM 


i  ■_■■ 

W-  .1 

1    -    ;  E 

i ! 

4  ': 


IV 
HOMER 

I 

riic  laujjlitcr  of  the  gods  illumes  no  more 
Mi>t-bound   Olympian  heights  for  human  eyes; 

Beneath  the  dread  rocks,  bleaching  skulls  lie  hoar, 
And  poised  above  them,  black  the  eagle  flies. 

And  who  beloved  Scamander  can  restore 
To  its  piescribed  channel?     Buried  lies 

Its  heedless  wave  beside  Sig;i*um's  shore 

Where  Otinan  towers,  thy  sea  offending,  rise. 

Still  doth  immortal  Zeus,  O  loved  Achaian 
With  his  commands  entrance  a  listening  age, 
Whicli    hears    the    tread    of    Neptune    in    the 
deeps, 

And  trembles  when,  beside  the  black  JEgczn, 
In  shining  armor,  wild  with  murderous  rage 
Divine  Achilles  to  his  chariot  leaps. 


80 


V 

HOMER 

II 

From  the  wild  Urals  to  the  valfs  below 
Once  more  barbaric  tribes  may  desecr.-te; 
New  armies,  horses,  chariots,  inundate 

The  Agenorian  Thebes,  as  long  ago. 

And  Rome  may  fall;  thro'  desert  streets  may  flow 
The  Tiber,  bathing  fields  without  a  name. 
But  thou  (as  Hercules  from  out  the  flame 

Of  CEta's  pyre  to  Hebe's  breast)  shalt  grow 

Youthful  once  more,  and  rise  to  the  embrace 
Of  the  ideal,  eternal,  which  held  thee  dear 
And  smiling  first  to  thee  unveiled  her  face: 

Until  both  Alp  and  Athos  disappear 
On  Greek  and  Latin  shores,  till  time  is  done, 
Great  Homer  shines,  enduring  as  the  sun. 


i|4 


ST 


VI 

HOMER 

III 

And  rvt-r  with  the  sun  and  ffrtilc  spring 
I  turn  to  thee  nnd  to  thy  songs  divine, 
O  god-like  bard  !     whose  halo'd  brow  doth  shine 

With  youth  eternal,  all-illumining. 

Tell  me  of  blond  Calypso,  sorrowing. 

The  spells  of  the  Sun's  daughter,  make  them  mine, 
Tell  me  of  fair  Nausicaa's  garments  fine 

Washed  gaily  in  the  blue  wave  for  her  king. 

Tell  me — ah,  tell  me  not.     Cumean  clods 

Have  made  this  earth  a  tainted  judgment-scat; 
And  vile  the  kings,  and  ugly  are  the  gods. 

No  modern  Glaueu^  were  so  indiscreet — 
If  to  our  world  returned  thv  wandering  soul 
Not  one,  O  vagabond !   w  ould  give  thee  dole. 


as 


VII 


THE  NIGHT 

Enfold  mc  in  thy  shadowy  veil,  O  night! 

Hide  human  dullness  from  my  ;  -ary  eyes. 
Envelop,  scatter  every  shallow  spite; 

Thou  callest  me  to  thee — my  heart  replies. 

To  what  blest  idleness  dost  thou  invite 
And  my  sad  restless  spirit  tranquillize: 

How   dost   thou    wing  my   wretched   thoughts   for 
flight 
That  to  th'  eternal,  or  nothing,  they  arise? 

0  sacred  night,  what  it  may  mean,  who  knows? 
This  presaging  delight,  this  pensive  joy 

Wherein  the  soul  forgets  its  wild  unrest ; 

1  only  know  in  thee  I  find  repose 

Such  as  awaits  a  little  sobbing  boy 
Upon  his  grandmother's  brown,  withered  breast. 


hit 


iS 


u 


m 


4 


VIII 

A  TALK  WITH  THE  TREES 

I  love  thee  not,  O  pensive  oak,  dark-bent 

Above  sad  plains  and  towering  cliff  and  scaur, 

Since  thou  thy  branch  hast  traitorously  lent 
To  deck  a  aiad  destroyer's  triumph  car. 

Nor  thee,  unfruitful  laurel!  insolent 

And  liar  art  thou ;  thy  proud  greens  alien  are 

Whether  upon  a  wintry  field  besprent, 

Or  wreathed  for  some  bald  Roman  Emperor, 

Ah,  thee  I  love,  O  vine,  whose  juice  affords 
A  wise  forgetfulness  of  all  the  past; 
How  gay,  among  brown  stones,  thy  purple  gleams  I 

But  most  I  honor  thee,  O  pine:    four  boards 
A  tidy  coffin  make  for  me  at  last 
And  all  my  wild  thoughts  and  tumultuous  dreams. 


10 


IX 
THE  OX 

I  love  thee,  gentle  ox,  a  sentiment 

Of  strength  and   nrace  doth   thy  great  presence 
yield , 
A.iv'.^  oh,  how  solemn,  like  a  monument 

Thou  gayest  at  tiic  free  and  ferci.     field. 

When  thou  beneath  the  yoke  dost  btd,  ,-ontent 
To  gravely  seconc  agile  men  who  ,.ieid 

The  goad  to  urge  and  prick  thee,  eloquent 
In  clow-turned  ey    is  thy  consent  reveal'd. 

From  out  thy  nostri  ,  large  and  moist  and  black, 
Thy  spin'    Veathe-.,  and  like  a  joyful  hymn 
Thy  lowing  e..uv^.i  on  the  air  again. 

And  from  thy  humid  eyes,  reflected  back- 
Eyes  that  with  quiet,  austere  sweetness  brim — 
Shines  the  divine  green  silence  of  the  plain. 


i 

j.     ■ 

i 

',    - 

-"^ 

'-    ■( 

i^l 

r! 

FH! 

I 


81 


'    H 


i 


VIRGIL 

As  when,  o'er  parching  fields  and  drying  sheave* 
A  low-hung  moon  the      -  of  lumr^er  lays, 
And  murmuring  to  its  light,  thro'  devious  ways, 

Between  low  banks  the  sparkling  river  weaves; 

And  a  secret  nightingale  among  the  leaves 
Fills  all  the  tranquil  deep  with  roundelays, 
The  wanderer  listens,  dreaming  of  old  days 

And  fair  hair  once  beloved,  nor  time  perceives; 

Or  a  lonely  mother,  sorrowing  in  vain 
Beside  a  tiny  grave,  lifts  tearful  eyes 
To  find  her  peace  in  some  wide-sp'cadlrig  tree ; 

When,  sea  and  mountains  smiling  at  the  plain, 

Among   the   towering   trees   the    fresh   breeze 
sighs; 
O  glorious  poet!    Such  thy  verse  to  me. 


39 


i 


XI 
"FUNERE  MERSIT  ACERBO" 

O  thou  who  slefpcst  swi  t  on  Tuscan  hills, 
Thy  father  close  beside  thee  thro'  the  vears, 

Hast  thou  not  heard  a  gentle  voice  that  fills 
The  silence  of  th\   tomb  with  childish  fears  ■' 

It  is  my  little  son,    whose  tapping  thrills 

Thy  lonely  portal;  thy  great  name  he  bears; 

For  such  as  thou,  O  brother,  life  distils 
A  bitter  drink ;  he  fled  it,  too,  in  tears. 

Ah,  no!     While  he  was  smiling  at  a  dream 
And  gathering  painted   flowers  in   the  sun 
Down  came  the  cruel  shadow's  sudden  smother 

And  whirled  him  to  the  banks  of  that  dark  stream. 
Ah,  welcome  him!  for  he  is  all  alone 
And  crying  for  the  sunlight  and  his  mother. 


33 


.M 


»' 


L. 


XII 
A  WINTER'S  NIGHT 

On,  on.     Along  the  ever-darkening  coast 

The  gleaming  snow  spreads,  even  as  a  floor, 
And  creaking,  yields  beneath  the  foot.     Before 

My  cleaving  breath  steams  when  it  strikes  the  frost. 

All  else  i5  hushed.     Amonr;  the  still-set  host 
Of  clouds,  the  moon  runs  over  pallid  skies. 
How  fearsomely  that  pine-tree's  shadow  lies; 

To  what  dread  shape  its  splintered  limbs  are  tost! 

Death-longings,  clutching  at  the  shapeless  soil. 

Embrace  me,  winter!    P'recze  that  inward  sense 
That  surges  over  me  in  stormy  waves; 

My  shipwrecked  soul  above  the  wild  turmoil 
Cries  out,  "O  night,  O  winter,  get  ye  hence 
And  tell  mc  how  the  dead  fare  in  their  graves!" 


34 


"i 


XIII 
FIESOLE 

Beside  the  rock  whence  Fiescle  gazed  below 
Where  Sylla's  town  now  wreathes  itself  in  flowers 

The  Arno  stagnates;  friars  are  pacing  slow 
Called  by  the  curfew  from  Franciscan  towers. 

High  on  the  walls,  the  lizard's  fixed  eyes  glow 
Where  hid  in  crushed  Etruscan  stone  it  cowers; 

The  weary  cypress  moans  where  breezes  blow 
While  gleaming  twilight  trails  its  lonely  hours. 

> 

But  where  the  hill  curves  down  to  meet  the  plain 

The  campan'le  rules  with  gentle  poise 

As  from  the  millenium,  rose  Italy. 

Within  thy  marble,  Mino,  is  nature,  fain 
To  smile  at  little  curly-headed  boys 
— Virgin  and  mother  sempiternaliy. 


M 


XIV 

DONATELLO'S  ST.  GEORGE 

November  sits  beside  the  joyous  ways 
Where  spring  came  to  my  soul ;  where,  one  by  one 
My  tlioughts  bloomed:    tliro'  the  fog  to  seek  the 

sun 
Thy  town,  O  Di;nte,  spectral  towers  doth  raise. 

'Tis  better  thus ;  I  would  avoid  the  maze 
Of  L?pian  Academics  and  the  taint 
Of  Bindi  artisans;  on  a  knightly  saint 

A  saintly  knight,  I  fain  would  bend  my  gaze. 

O  strength  and  vouth !     How  gaily  flowering 

their   white   marble!      Praise   of    luscan 


From 


rhyme  ,   .  •   j 

Or  Grecian  scalpel  follow  far  behind. 

Worthy,  St.  George  (mine  eyes  ire  wearying 
For  such  a  sight!),  that  under  tucf,  sublime 
A  conquering  people's  hero-army  wind. 


3« 


XV 
ST.  MARY  OF  THE  ANGELS 

Saint  Francis,  in  how  delicate  embrace 

Vignola's  cupola  doth  hold  the  air! 
Nude  thou  didst  lie  upon  this  very  place 

Stark,  crucified  by  anguish  ai.d  despair. 

July  burns,  and  the  song  of  love  flies  fair 
Across  the  tedious  plain.    O  tl    t  one  trace 

Of  thy  sweet  speech  the  Umbrian  song  might  bear 
Or  Umbrian  skies  reveal  to  me  thy  face! 

Upon  the  far  horizon's  rugged  line 

Where  tender,  lofty,  gloriously  bright 
The  splendor  of  thy  Paradise  doth  shine, 

I  see  thee  with  thine  arms  stretched  toward  the 
light. 
Singing  to  God,  as  with  thy  failing  breath, 
"Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  sister  Death!" 


■^ 


yi'] 


'H 


37 


H- 
ii 


XVI 
DANTE 

Dante,  whence  comes  it  that  I  lift  my  prayer 
To  thy  proud  image?     That  the  breaking  dawn 
Doth  find  me  bent  o'er  verse  that  made  thee  wan 

As  still  as  when  the  sun  last  touched  me  there? 

Ah,  not  for  me  Matilda  doth  prepare 
The  bath,  nor  Lucia  make  orison, 
Nor  saintly  Beatrice  lead  her  lover  on 

And  up  to  God  upon  the  starry  stair. 

I  hate  thy  holy  Empire ;  with  my  sword 

I   should   have  carved   the  crown    from   Frederic's 

head 
Had  I  been  with  him  in  Olona's  vale. 

Church,  Empire  are  in  ruins;  yet  heavenward 
Thy  great  <:nng  soars;  though  mighty  Jove  is  dead, 
The  poet  hngers  still  to  tell  his  tale. 


S8 


XVll 
POKTIC  JUSTICt 

When     my     preat     ncitjhbor,     Dante,     wandering 
strolled. 
A  pensi.c  pilKtiin,  thro'  the  wilderness, 
If  traitors,  thieves  or  those  bem-ath  the  stress 

Of  vicious  wills,  desires  uncontrolled. 

If  these — sinking  of  love  with  voire  of  gold — 
He  met,  his  e\e  forgot  its  gentleness 
And  thrust  thro'  ev'rv  fibre,  pitiless 

Of  such  vile  roj^jues.     The  deft  hand  that,  of  old, 

I^rew  angels  in  tlie  Vita  Nuova,  fell'd 
And  branded  them  upon  their  wicked  brows 
And  flung  them  whence  they  never  shall  arise. 

The  shame  of  kings  that  centuries  have  beheld 
As  smoke  in  the  Inferno,  still  it  blows; 
And  Dante  gazes  down  from  Paradise. 


i,.\ 


: 


1 


39 


f'i 

P 
i] 


XVIII 
ANNOTATING  PETRARCH 

Mcsser  Francesco,  for  peace  I  come  to  you 
And  to  your  gentle  lady,  fair  and  grave; 

My  turbid  spirit  I  would  purge,  renew, 

Beneath  the  Sorga's  sweet  and  shining  wave. 

Behold ;  the  shadows  of  a  holm-oak  woo 
And  I  accept,  and  where  the  waters  lave 

The  lonely  shore,  I  call,  and  thro'  the  dew 
You  and  your  lovely  chorus  come  to  enslave. 

The  chorus  of  your  songs,  all  blithely  singing 

A  wreath  of  fresh-plucked  roses  beneath  their  feet, 

Over  their  lovely  limbs  their  gold  locks  flinging 

In  tremulous  repose.     Ah,  indiscreet 
Is  one  who  from  a  lip  how  musical 
The  rebel  cry,  "Rome,  Italy,"  lets  fall. 


40 


XIX 

"I    HOLD    YOUR    COUNSELS    IN    CON- 
TEMPT" 

"CharminK  our  women,  elegant  and  proud 

Are  our  young  men.    O  bard,  now  wing  thy  song! 
Above  them  let  thy  strophic  chorus  throng, 

For  them  be  flowers  entwined  and  loves  avowed. 


i 


Thy  verse  is  rusty ;  ever  has  it  sowed 
Thorns     in     our     breast.     Forget 


the     fancied 


wrong: 
To  thee  the  gardens  of  delight  belong, 
To  thee  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  bowed." 

Now  say  to  Juvenal,  his  verses  bringing 

To  Ceres,  that  he  cease  to  satirize. 

For  glycons  change  hexameters — he  may! 

When  Dante  his  great  thunderbolts  is  flinging 
Up  from  Inferno,  down  from  Paradise 
Quick!   quench  the  flash  with  your  cafe-au-Uit. 


41 


XX 

BEFORE  A  PORTRAIT  OF  ARIOSTO 

How  like  to  life  the  great  I^mbardian  stands 
Before  you,  gentle  lady!     Ample  brow 
And  vague,  slow-moving  eye,  which  even  now 

The  memory  of  glorious  dreams  commands. 

O  happy  he!    whose  world  slipped  thro'  his  hands 
Like  that  gay  page  on  which  he  pictured  it. 
Yet  to  keen  vision  did  not  blind  his  wit 

Beneath  dull  skies,  upon  sad  exiled  sands. 

And  happier  still !   never  to  join  the  throni; 
Near  princes,  nor  seek  popular  applause. 
Nor  love  from  ladies  theological! 

A  lovely  mouth  his  recompense  for  song, 

Whose  cool  kiss  from  his  brow  the  burning  draws. 

Until  it  glistens,  star-like,  over  all. 


48 


XXI 

THE  SUN  AND  LOVE 


O  lightly,  vvhitcly,  toward  the  west  brgan 
The  race  of  clouds,  as  sheep  escape  the  fold : 
The  skv  smiled  where  the  night-damp  lingered, 
cold. 

The  conquerinc  sun  bowed  to  the  works  of  man. 


I  fl 


Cathedral  spires,  a  rose-lit  thousand,  ran 

Toward  heaven,  and   from  the  saints  of  shining 

gold 
Hosannas  rose;  around  them,  brown  and  bold 

Flew  a  hawk  chorus,  screaming,  harridan. 

Thus  fares  my  soul ;  it  rises  toward  the  sun 
When  love  effaces  with  the  sweetest  laughter 
The  clouds  whose  gloom  has  burdened  me  so  long. 

Life's  saintliest  concept  smiles  on  her — not  one 
But  manifold;  and  every  thought  thereafter 
Is  harmony,  and  every  sense  a  song. 


u 


43 


XXII 
MORNING  AND  NIGHT 

When  I  behold  the  morning,  cleansed  and  purged, 
The  azure  sky  with  purity  impearled, 

See  how  God's  smile,  benignant,  has  emerged 
With  this  May  sun,  to  beam  upon  the  world ; 

Quick  from   the  depths  where  my  soul  lies  sub- 
merged 
The  wings  of  thought  with  new  strength  are  un- 
furled. 
By  sun-lit  eyes  to  flight  my  verse  is  urged, 

And  like  a  lark's  song  toward  high  heaven  is 
hurl'd. 

But,  ardent,  in  my  heart  I  feel  the  glow 
Of  those  dark  eyes  where  lingers,  sorrowing 
The  longing  for  a  strange  and  unknown  shore. 

When  over  lonely  hills  the  moon  bends  low 
To  seek  the  still  white  city,  whispering 
Her  melancholy  tales  forcvermore. 


44 


XXIII 
"HERE  LOVE  DOTH  REIGN" 

Where  art  thou  ?  And  for  whom,  O  lady  mine, 
Dost  steel  the  dart  of  thy  clear,  laughing  eye? 

For  whom,  within  thy  heart's  most  secret  shrine 
Dost  shape  its  harmonies  to  melody? 

Upon  some  flower-set  sward  dost  thou  recline 
And  with  the  breezes  mingle  sigh  for  sigh? 

Or  on  the  gentle  wave  dost  rest,  '^upine, 
Surrendered  to  its  loving  tyranny? 

Where'er  thou  art — if  the  desirous  wind 

Or  murmuring  wave  deflower  thy  lovely  face 

Or  rest  on  thy  white  shoulder,  there  am  I. 

My  love  in  every  thought  or  dream  thou'lt  find, 
It  seeks  thee  in  all  beauty,  every  grace. 
Embracing  thee  to  all  eternity. 


If* 

m 


45 


I' 


■    ! 


XXIV 
A  VISION 

When  azure  silences  of  evening  fall 

She  sirs  anions  the  trees,  beneath  the  rose 

Where  young  spring,   trembling  with   desire,   doth 
call, 
And    where    the    breeze    with    gentle    fragrance 

blows. 

O  moon,  above  the  frowning  mountain  wall 
Until  the  dawn  thy  fair  ray  glimmering  goes 

Thro'  the  green  darkness,  pulsing,  magical, 
And  her  fair  lofty  brow  doth  soon  disclose. 

Thus,  goddess,  shone  the  pensive  brow  and  sweet 
Above  thy  great  arch,  silver,  glorious, 
That  to  the  young  Endymion  was  inclined; 

Down  from   Mt.  Latmos  under  thy  white  feet. 
Reflecting  thee,  fled  rivers,  luminous. 
Forsaking  love  to  reason  with  the  wind. 


4« 


XXV 
MYTH  AND  TRUTH 

Oh.  histon,-  tells  tales  and  poets  sing, 
Tho'  Clio  the  divine  doth  tell  it  best, 

How  Arthur's  hand  did  such  a  wondrous  thing 
On  happy  fields  of  Brittany  the  blest. 

He  gave  the  master  sword  a  mighty  swing 
And  pierced  the  heart  of  IVIordrec  in  his  breast, 

And,  thro'  that  horrid  window  wandering. 

The  restless  sun  laughed  from  the  crimson  west. 

In  me  is  a  more  modern  marvel  seen : 
For,  tearing  from  my  heart,  so  foolish-fond, 
The  lovely  form  it  clasps  and  intertwines, 

Instead  I  tear  my  heart,  and  black,  unclean. 
It  gapes ;  and  deep  within  the  smoking  wound 
The  laugh  of  her  frank  soul,  contemptuous,  shines. 


47 


XXVI 

BESIDE  THE  SEA 

My  breast,  Tyrrhenus,  like  a  deep  sea  lies 
And  over  it,  as  thee,  great  tempests  roll ; 
And  louder  than  thy  wave,  cries  out  my  soul 

And  beats  upon  brief  shores  and  finite  skies. 

And  here  and  there,  where  greasy  foam  filth  flies 
And  sands,  storm-driven,  grate  upon  the  shoal, 
A  clumsy,  unclean  porpoise  keeps  patrol 

And,  gaping,  follows  close  its  unclean  prize. 

Informed  by  shivering  sentinels,  the  mind 

Adds,  half-abstracted,  counting  one  by  one. 
Waves,  sordid  life,  and  sands,  vain,  raging,  blmd; 

As,  far  above  this  solitary  dune 
And  thy  black  passions  and  the  autumn  wmd 
A  frail  and  useless  lantern,  shines  the  moon. 


48 


•^t- 


XXVII 

TO  AN  ASS 

Beyond  the  hedge  of  white,  sweet-smelling  thorn 
Your  grey  head  rises,  old  and  patient  beast; 

Why  do  you  gaze  with  burning  eyes,  forlorn, 
Between  the  flowering  elders  to  the  East? 

Why  is  your  dolorous  bray  to  Heaven  borne? 

Surely,  old  boy,  for  you  love's  pangs  have  ceased? 
What  memories  scourge  your  sides,  flea-bitten,  torn ; 

What  fled  hope  spurs  you  to  a  waning  feast? 

Dreaming  of  hot  Arabia  and  the  tent 

Of  Job,  where  you  such  great  endurance  won 
You  dared  to  race  with  stallions?    Insolent! 

Or  into  fighting  Hella^.  would  you  run 
To  beg  old  Homer  for  aggrandizement 
As  stubborn  Ajax,  son  of  Telamon? 


49 


ii 


XXVIII 
TO  A  BABY  GIRL 

Upon  thy  proud  and  dainty  little  self 

My  thoughts,  remembering,  tenderly  alight; 

Within  my  heart,  on  some  forgotten  shelf, 
A  vision  awakens,  dormant  many  a  night. 

The  shining  hair  that  crowns  thee,  agile  elf, 
With  radiant  reflections,  tawny  bright, 

Recalls  the  blossoming  chestnuts'  golden  pelf 
Where  on  the  Apuan  Alps  they  ever  fight 

The  April  winds.     Here  lived  the  ancients,  strong, 
Well-armed.      Beneath    this   forest   shade    were 
spun 
My  soul  s  first  timid  fancies  into  song. 

Blue  as  thine  eyes,  and  smiling  in  the  sun 
That  burned  on  marble  cliffs,  white,  perilous, 
The  fierce  Ligurian  crashed,  canorous. 


50 


Ml 


XXIX 


«« 


TO  Mlle.  MARIA  L. 

Mary,  in  these  thy  melancholy  days, 

From  my  expectant  longing  eyes  sped  far 

An  earth-strayed  angel,  who  thro'  heavenly  ways 
Weeping,  would  fain  return  to  Heaven's  gold  bar; 

Out  of  the  land  where  Petrarch  sang  in  praise 
Of  that  loved  lady  whom  he  held  his  star. 

Thy  pilgrim  vision  blossoms  to  my  gaze 
Within  the  garden  where  my  fancies  arc. 

As  when,  beneath  a  sky  serene  and  moist 

Above  the  wintry  marshes,  worn  and  stale 
A  lily  its  white  waving  flag  doth  hoist 

Disclosing,  underneath  its  beauty's  veil — 
While  the  sun  shines,  and  the  birds'  glee  is  voiced — 
Gold  stamens,  perfume,  pride,  each  sense  to  assail. 


61 


XXX 

AN  EPIC  MOMENT 

Farewell,  Bologna!    and  to  you  farewell 

Great    plain    where    blackening    hemp    wave* 

drearily, 
And  you,  pale  poplars,  gravely  marching  by 

Stirred  by  the  summer  winds  you'd  fain  repel. 

Epic   Ferrara!   whose   great  citadel 

Lifts  laughing  battlements  against  the  sky 
Where  flying  clouds,  a  golden  galaxy, 

Bend  to  the  mirrorinp^  Po's  sweet  canticle. 

O,  lands  with  fettering  dykes  and  bastions  bound 
Where  wept  the  Heliades!  on  all  around 
The  hated  darkness  falls,  but  not  on  me. 

For  in  the  shade  the  mighty  epopee 

Spreads  wide  its  rose-red  wings  and  on  my  breast 

The  sunbeams  of  immortal  fancy  rest. 


52 


H 


XXXI 

MARTIN  LUTHER 

Two  foes  had  Luther;  on  their  downfall  bent 
He  fought  for  thirty  years,  and  both  o'ercame; 
One  the  sad  devil  whom  he  returned  to  flame 

Between  the  joys  of  psalm  and  sacrament. 

The  pope  the  other,  gay,  impenitent. 

To  whom  he  sent  the  Christ,  austere  and  dour; 

And   with   God's   strength   his   loins  were  girt 
secure, 
And  of  high  thouglit  his  brow  was  eloquent. 

"Our  strength  and  sword  art  thou,  O  Lord,"  he 
cried, 
And  all  the  people  sang  his  hymn  inspired ; 
The  hymn  that  promised  better  for  this  worse. 

Then  with  a  glance  behind,  he  softly  sighed: 
"Lord,  call  me  unto  thee,  for  I  am  tired ; 
Alas,  I  cannot  pray,  unless  I  curse." 


* ; ,  1 
1 1 


53 


XXXII 
THE  PRESS  AND  THE  REFORMATION 

"I  believe,"  said  one;  and  sluggish,  stealthy-still 
Foul  manuscripts,  like  wild  beasts  in  a  den, 
Dozed  in  the  cloister,  and  the  dull  moor-hen 

On  Truth's  vast  thunderbolts  bestowed  a  quill. 

"I  think,"  said  one;  and  with  a  quickened  will 
Industrial  art  gave  to  the  thoughts  of  men 
Metallic  wings,  whose  flight  brings  to  their  ken 

Free  messengers  of  noble  strife  or  ill. 

Forth  flew  the  little  lx)ok  to  spcnl-   to  all ; 

At   Rome  the  haughty  challenge     intoned 

— Transcribed  to  rugged  Saxon  verse — God's  word. 

It  flew;  thro'  air  still  burdened  with  the  pall 
Of  smoking  pyres,  to  Zuyder  Zee  enthroned 
On  happy  shores,  and  Charles  dropped  crown  and 
sword. 


S4 


Ui 


XXXIII 

NOW  AND  ALWAYS 

Now; — the  young  Nizzard,  fair,  with  flashing  eyes 
Proffered  his  right  hand  freely,  willingly, 

While,  as  a  leopard  on  its  trembling  prize 
His  quick  thought  leaped  upon  futurity. 

And  always: — grave,  austere,  the  Genoese 
Gave  a  fixed  look,  his  hand  with  dignity. 

Above  the  glorious  battle,  fought  by  these 
Shone  the  Ideal,  strong  eternally. 

In  that  serene  air  of  exalted  vision 
The  word  of  faith  resounds  and  shall  defend 
Against  the  dismal  reign  of  Death  and  Fate. 

Now: — from  the  sky  Staglieno  asks  with  passion* 
Always: — sea-bound   Caprera  doth   demand: 
Above  the  Pantheon  the  moon  shines  late. 


11' 


XXXIV 

CROSSING  THE  TUSCAN  MAREMMA 

Sweet  country,  whence,  conformably,  I  brought 
A  breast  wherein  nor  hate  nor  love  tmy  sleep, 

Disdainful  song,  manners  with  hauteur  fraught, 
Once  more  thy  beauty  makes  my  sad  heart  leap. 

I  recognize  familiar  turns,  long  sought 
By  eyes  uncertain  if  they  smile  or  weep, 

And  quickly  is  the  old  enchantment  wrought 
That  else  my  errant  dreams  alone  may  keep. 

Ever  I  raced,  but  never  reached  the  goal. 

And  all  my  loves  and  all  my  dreams  were  vain ; 
Tomorrow  I  shall  fall.     Thy  ^ray  fogs  roll 

A  misty  sea  above  the  verdant  plain 
And  bringing  peace  to  wearied  heart  and  soul 
Thy  far-ofi  hills  lie  smiling  in  the  rain. 


in 


XXXV 
BE!  (^RE  A  PORTRAIT 

That  which  I  was  is  here  made  manifest; 
In  breathing  imagery  the  poet  stands 
Who  sought  for  truth  among  the  shifting  sands, 

And  wnose  \oung  verses  leaped  and  effervesced. 

Now  calm  surrounds  me:     veiled  in  black,  opprest 
The  sad  earth  lies,  to  blossom  nevermore. 
The     moor-fowl     shrieks     distraught     upon     the 
shore, 

And  I  of  hope  and  love  am  dispossessed. 

O  wondrous  fantasies!     O  dreams  dispelled 

Of  Italy  triumphant,  freedom  higher, 
More  glorious,  with  throne  by  art  upheld. 

Naught  can  I  do  to  quell  the  rising  mire 
But  dash  disdain  on  worthless  paper  scraps 
And  from  this  mortal  scaffold  my  head,  perhaps. 


m 

i 


S7 


XXXVI 
AN  ALPINE  MORNING 

Up  from  the  East  the  pulsing  day 
Its  first  soft  rays  of  light  doth  send; 

They  dash  against  a  sombre  beech 
And  shattered,  with  the  darkness  blend. 

They  glance  upon  the  murmuring  waves; 

Laughing  beside  the  stream  they  rove 
As  timid  virgin  eyes  reply 

To  the  first  call  of  love. 

Even  the  mountain,  as  they  slip 
Across  it,  yields  unwilling  smiles 

As  a  child  playing  joyfully 
An  old  man's  face  beguiles. 

They  dazzle  now ;  and  quickly  spread 
Across  the  valley  deeply  flowered, 

As  youthful  hopes  and  youthful  joys 
On  opening  life  are  showered. 

Above  the  silent  dewy  plain 

In  curdling  waves,  that  spread  afar 

A  tender  softening  veil  of  mist, 
The  rays  ensilvered  are, 

While  flower-clad  the  hills  emerge; 

The  houses  and  the  verdure  seem 
Behind  that  white  and  foaming  veil 

A  frail,  transparent  dream. 


58 


The  light  plays  on  the  smoking  heights 
Where  higher  yet  and  higher 

Two  mating  doves  rise,  querulous, 
Led  upward  by  desire. 

Their  clean  and  shining  wings  reflect 

The  limpid  splendor  from  above. 
They  pass,  an  iridescent  flash. 

And  the  heavens  smile  with  love. 


9 


1 


U 


m 


■' 


i     !■ 


5» 


XXXVII 

A  ROSE  AND  A  MAID 

Now  that  skies  are  clear  and  beautiful  the  days 
And  soft  the  breezes  murmur,  and  birds  sing  their 
lays 

All  amorous-drooping,  blows 
Thy  brow,  O  virgin  rose. 

What  matters  it  to  thee,  if  thy  home-field 
Beneath  the  sun,  a  lonely  t>'rant,  faint; 

If  from  the  meadow,  sad  for  its  lost  yield, 
The  dusty  summer  lift  its  vain  complaint; 
Or  deaf'ning  cricket  th'  noonday  silence  taint. 
Or  from  the  marsh 

Now  nearly  dp%  the  hidden  frog,  raucous,  harsh, 

Curse  suffocating  day,  now  at  its  close. 

If  suddenly,  from  hills  no  longer  green. 
The  rising  thunderstorm  comes  all  a-bluster. 

Flooding  the  fields  with  sand,  and  sweeping  clean 
The  tender  shoots,  the  last  flowers  left  in  cluster ; 
The  burning  heat  its  every  power  doth  muster, 

The  shade  is  comfortless: 

This  weary  hour's  distress 

Thou  dost  flee,  virgin  rose. 

Not  thine  to  listen,  when  the  summer's  done. 
Thro'  gray  days  for  the  old  year's  dying  sigh. 

To  watch  the  dead  leaves  dropping  one  by  one 
To  sob  beneath  the  feet  of  passers-by. 
There,  crushed  and  dampened  by  the  fog  they  lie 

In  slow  decay 


00 


r'-l : 


Or  down  the  ruined  vale  are  whirled  away 
When  the  cold  wind  blows. 

When  on  the  mountains  lie  the  smoking  clouds 
And  the  long  shadows  of  the  sunset  freeze 

When  slanting  rain  a  pallid  plain  enshrouds 
And  frost  on  Nature's  secrets  turns  the  keys, 
Midwinter  comes  upon  us  by  degrees — 

The  sun's  desire  is  far 

But  thou  hast  fled  such  war, 
Dear  little  rose. 


id 


61 


f* 


XXXVIII 
A  CUP  TO  APRIL 

Above  the  almonds,  pink 
With  fair  new  blossoming 
Above  the  dark  oaks,  sing 

The  birds  in  nuptial  choir; 

And  the  yellow  cowslips  blink 
— Eyes  of  fair  naiads,  lying 
On  sunny  hills,  where  spying 

On  mortals,  they  conspire. 

The  sun,  with  a  gay  young  smile, 
Salutes  the  flowers  again ; 
Above  the  silent  plain 

Inclines  the  tender  sky. 

And  April's  perfumed  breath 
Stirs  soft  the  flowering  corn 
As  a  bride  on  her  wadding  morn 

Stirs  her  veil  with  a  sigh. 

And  old  wounds  throb  once  more 
Pulsing  with  life  divine 
Within  the  trunk  of  the  vine, 

Within  the  heart  of  a  maid. 

One  breathes  in  perfumed  buds 

Above  the  barren  crag, 

By  one  the  virgin  flag 
Of  a  red  blush  is  displayed. 


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Then  in  the  warm,  moist  air 
Fermenting,  desirous, 
Grows  the  blood  in  the  veins  of  us 
And  the  red  wine  in  the  flask. 

And  thee,  red  prisoner! 
A        perate  longing  fills 
F(  .  the  breath  of  thy  native  hills 

As  it  swells  thy  wooden  cask. 

There  the  vine  assumes  new  leaves 

With  springtime  gaycty 
While  thou  art  here  ensnared — 

O,  long  live  liberty! 

Let  us  hasten  to  the  prisoner 

And  quickly  set  him  free 
And  then  within  our  pitcher 

Let  him  gay  and  sparkling  be; 

Let  him  sparkle  toward  the  hills, 

Let  him  spark!  ■  beneath  the  sun 
Till  the  kiss  of  the  young  breeze  thrills 

And  he  sees  what  the  vines  have  done. 

Smile  on  him.  sun !     For  he  was  born  of  thee 
One  day  when  thou  didst  lift  the  wintry  veil 

From  Opis'  breast:     His  sweet  serenitv 

Like  thine,  to  cheer  man's  sorrow  cannot  fail; 

When  thou  art  fled,  he  lies  dejectedly 
A  heavenly  prisoner  in  an  earthly  jail; 

Within  his  crimson  be  thy  rays  beguil'd, 

Embrace,  immortal  sun,  embrace  thv  child. 


^i 


63 


? ' 


Ah,  this  is  crimson,  but  the  other  fair 
JEgcan,  as  thy  locks  so  sweetly  curled ; 

Fair  as  the  nymphs,  whom  thou  didst  follow  ther^ 
Beside  the  happy  banks  where  Peneus  purl'd. 

Till  all  the  gay  lonians  should  declare 

Thee  god  of  all  things  glorious  in  the  world. 

Now  all  these  lovely  beings  are  exiled — 

Embrace,  immortal  sun,  embrace  thy  child. 

There  is  none  like  him,  and  I  feel  for  him 
A  love  unlike  all  other,  fair  or  dark. 

Fair,  he's  the  light  that  strengthens  every  limb, 
That  makes  creative  thought  sing  like  the  lark; 

Dark,  he's  the  good  blood  that  the  heart  doth  brim 
Surging  to  deeds  that  all  the  world  shall  mark: 

On  white  and  red,  smile  as  thou'st  ever  smiled. 

Embrace,  immortal  sun,  embrace  thy  child. 


84 


XXXIX 

CLASSIC  SPRING 

From  green  and  humid  banks 

New  violets  suspire ; 

The  almond's  rosy  fire, 
The  bird  sings  as  it  flies. 

Azure  and  cool  the  air 

That  gladdens  every  breast, 
But  there  shines,  at  my  behest, 

A  dearer  sun  in  thine  eyes. 

What  care  I  for  the  breath 

Of  the  unplucked  violet? 

A  sweeter  flower  yet 
Trembles  thy  mouth  for  me. 

What  care  I  for  the  chatter 
Of  rustling  leaves  and  birds? 
Ah,  the  divinest  words 

Are  those  of  love  from  thee. 

What  though  the  perfume  rise 

From  the  tress  of  the  rose-hung  vine? 

It  is  the  wave  of  thine 
That  I  would  fain  adore. 

Away,  unsenticnt  flowers, 

Gift  of  the  youthful  year! 

They  will  return,  most  dear, 
Thou  wilt  return  no  more. 


65 


XL 

ROMANTIC  AUTUMN 

Above  the  pallor  of  a  dying  fall 

Serenely  glows  the  adamantine  sky, 
As,  conscious  of  thy  beauty,  over  all, 
Shines  thy  cold  eye. 

As  over  thy  fair  limbs  the  tenuous  veil 

Falls,  till  by  day  thou  art  to  action  bidden, 
So,  slumbering,  lies  the  earth,  all  misty  pale 
In  silver  hidden. 

Through  it,  immovable,  the  shaggy  trees 

Lift  their  grey  muted  heads,  all  wet  with  tears — 
As  we  are,  overwhelmed  with  memories 
Of  sweet  lost  years. 

And  the  indifferent  svm  goes  heedlessly. 

That  once  thro'  thick  May  leaves  smiled  sweet 
above. 
Shining,  it  warms  us  not.     O  lole, 

For  the  last  time,  we  love. 


66 


XL  1 1 
OLD  TEARS 

'^he  tree  you  tried  to  reach 
With  clutching  baby  hands, 
The  green  pomegranate,  stands 

Clad  in  its  crimson  flowers. 

To  the  silent  lonely  garden 
These  fair  June  days  restore 
Its  tender  green  once  more 

With  light,  and  warmth,  and  showers. 

And  you,  beloved  flower 

Of  a  stricken,  withered  tree 
Who  blossomed  curiously 
From  a  useless  life,  and  sad, 

You  lie  where  all  is  dark, 

You  lie  where  all  is  cold ; 

And  never  shall  love  enfold 
Nor  the  sun  make  you  glad. 


ill 

01 


67 


IT" 


XLIII 
NOSTALGIA 

Clouds  that  a  dark-blue  sky  define! 

Begin  to  gather  and  form: 
Rising  over  the  Apennines 

Grumbles  the  coming  storm. 
Ah,  if  the  whirlwind  kindly, 

Swift  in  its  eagle  flight. 
Would  snatch  me  and  carry  me,  blindl](, 

To  Tuscany,  tonight! 

Friends  and  relations  who  quaiTed  with  me, 

Not  for  these  are  my  sighs: 
Who  in  those  laughing  days  laughed  with  me 

Now  are  buried — or  wise. 
I  would  fly  from  fertility; 

The  delicate  design 
Of  arbor  vitse  or  olive  tree 

They  call  not  this  heart  of  mine. 

Far  from  the  praises  of  men 

And  the  usual  songs  would  I  fly : 
Tales  of  gossipping  women 

On  a  marble  balcony! 
Where  sparsely  the  forest  shadows 

The  spiteful  clay;  on  that  plain 
Gloomy  with  evil  sugheros 

Where  the  horses  roam  in  vain, 


M 


fiF\  itV 


In  the  stagnant  marsh,  where  flowers 

The  spring  of  my  own  sad  heart, 
Drenched  by  its  sudden  showers, 

There  would  I  be,  apart. 
Ah,  let  me  look  at  my  country, 

There  in  the  sky  set  me  free, 
Thf'.  with  the  thunder  drop  me 

between  the  hills  into  the  sea. 


'i  J 


69 


I 


l^'A 


XLIV 
WINTER-WEARY 

Ah,  were  there  then  one  day 
Sunshine  on  the  earth, 
Ardor,  light,  and  mirth, 

Rose  and  violet? 

Ah,  were  there  then  one  day 
Glory,  faith  and  duty. 
Youth  and  grace  and  beauty? 

Were  there?     I  forget  I 

They  were  when  Valmiki 
And  Homer  wrote  their  rhymes. 
But  these  were  ancient  times, 

The  sun  is  gold  no  more. 

This  unclean  winter  fog 
Greyly  around  me  curled 
It  is  the  ash  of  a  world 

Which  was,  perhaps,  of  yore. 


70 


ALV 

VIGNETTE 

\ 

On  those  green  hills  where  first  I  saw  my  love 
How  sweetly  smiles  the  gentle-mannered  spring 
— That  first  I  saw  her  there,  remembering. 

On  air  and  stream  new  April  shone;  above 
Bending  beneath  his  breath,  the  western  wind 
The  little  leaves  did  all  a-trembling  find. 

And  she,  through  the  young  forest's  tender  light 
Sang  shining  to  the  sun,  clad  all  in  white. 


71 


m^^.w^c^ 


XLVII 
PANTHEISM 

Not  to  the  stars  that  vigil  keep  by  night, 
Not  to  the  sun  that  sees  all  things  by  day, 

Have  I  confessed  the  flower  of  my  delight, 
The  name  that  echoes  in  my  heart  alway. 

Yet  one  star  to  another  doth  repeat 
My  cherished  secret  in  the  evening  sky. 

The  setting  sun  doth  smile,  in  converse  sweet 
With  the  white  moon,  as  she  goes  wandering  by. 

Upon  the  shore,  where  hills  their  shadows  cast, 
Each  flower  doth  tell  it  to  each  listening  tree: 

*'0  gloomy  poet,"  sing  the  birds,  "at  last 
Love's  dream,  forever  sweet,  has  come  to  thee." 

I  have  not  told  it.  yet  the  earth  and  skies 
Call  the  loved  name  with  harmonies  divine 

And  where  th'  acacia's  sweetest  odors  rise 
They  murmur  all  together,  "She  is  thine." 


n 


h^m^sm&kc..,^^-m^iamii^^  ' 


XLIX 
ANACREONTICA  RO?.IANTICA 

All  in  the  month  of  M:  y 
Love  to  his  grave  I  low  .'red 

In  the  glow  of  a  fresh  new  day 
Where  the  acacia  flowered. 

While  mounting  birds  sang  shrilly 

A  requiem  for  the  knave 
Between  the  rose  and  the  lily 

I  made  his  tiny  grave. 

Between  the  lily  and  rose 

Of  a  bosom  once  beloved 
Vermilion  was  the  close 

And  a  smiling  sky  approved. 

A  tender  memory 

Kept  its  sad  watch  beside: 
With  this  festivity 

May  the  god  be  satisfied ! 

But  the  tiny  vampire  thing 

Makes  himself  at  home  too  soon ; 

Night  finds  him  issuing 
Beneath  the  shining  moon. 

Out  of  the  tomb  he  flits 

Straight  to  my  throbbing  brow 

With  fanning  wings  he  sits 
Till  sleep  comes,  soft  and  slow, 


73 


y  ' 


When  to  my  weary  soul 
Sigh  a  shadow  and  a  stream 

And  thro'  the  veiling  dark 
Her  fair,  pale  temples  gleam. 

And  when  skop  overtakes 

And  I  lie  limp  and  still 
Two  tiny  wounds  he  makes 

Thro'  which  to  drink  his  fill, 

In  the  breast  and  the  brow  above 
And  the  red  blood,  flowing  free 

Brings  visions  of  my  love, 
And  steals  the  life  from  me. 

Now  that  the  wicked  vampire 

May  lie  in  his  grave  secure 
Bring  me  a  holy  friar 
To  bless  and  make  it  sure. 

Then  shall  the  spell  be  fled 
No  more  shall  this  hollow  husk 

Make  a  dress  to  bedeck  the  dead 

When  the  demon  creeps  thro'  the  dusk. 

The  sepulchre  of  thy  breast, 

O  woman,  I  would  unseal; 
The  little  dead  thing  at  rest 

Within  I  would  reveal. 

I  would  let  him  be  the  feast 

For  the  worms  when  they  come  to  dine : 
And  contempt  shall  be  the  priest 

And  the  holy  water,  wine, 


74 


A  MAY  SONG 

May  awakens  the  nestlings 

And  rouses  these  hearts  of  ours; 
May  brings  nettles  and  flowers, 

Birds,  and  the  snake  in  the  grass. 

Loud  are  the  voices  of  children. 
The  larks  sing  loud  in  the  skies: 
The  women  have  dancing  eyes 

And  a  rose  in  the  hair,  as  they  pass. 

Spread  over  hills,  fields  and  mountains 

Lies  a  flowery  tapestry : 

The  sky  and  the  earth  and  the  sea 
Love,  sing  and  blossom  again. 

No  blossoms  are  in  my  heart, 

But  a  thicket  of  thorns:  In  my  breast 
Three  vipers  that  give  me  no  rest 

And  a  hooting  owl  in  my  brain. 


75 


LI 

SERENATA 

The  stars  as  they  journey  across  the  sea 

Call  to  the  moon,  "Do  not  sleep  so  late! 
O  fair  moon,  when  will  thy  rising  be? 

We  want  to  go  on,  we  can  hardly  wait; 
For  we  long  to  shine  from  the  summer  skies 
On  that  little  room  where  our  sister  lies, 
Our  glorious  sister,  whom  one  sad  day 
A  wicked  sorcerer  stole  away !" 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  a  pine  replies, 

From  the  bank  of  the  river  an  alder-tree: 
"O  stars  of  the  tinv  twinkling  eyes, 

Why  do  you  talk  so  foolishly? 
She  came  to  us  here  on  the  f  rst  of  May 
Between  a  beech  and  a  laurel  gay, 
And  the  nightingale  sings  wherever  she  goes, 
And  wherever  she  steps,  there  blossoms  a  rose." 

The  stars  have  gone  down  beyond  the  deep. 

All  sound  is  hushed  on  mountain  and  plain: 
All  human  sorrow  seems  to  sleep 

In  a  dark  room,  never  to  wake  again. 
Alas,  my  beloved,  how  brief  is  the  night! 
With  another  May  morning  your  casement  is  white. 
Now  brisk  in  the  forest  the  little  birds  flute 
While   dawn    at    >our   feet    lays   the   world's   first 
salute. 


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2jr< 


LII 

MATTINATA 

Taps  the  sun  at  your  window  and  says,  '*Ari$e, 

Ah,  lovely  maid,  it  is  true  love  weather; 
I  bring  to  you  violets  blue  as  your  eyes 

And  roses,  singing  their  hymns  together. 
From  my  kingdom  so  splendid,  their  homage  tp  pay 
I  bring  you  as  vassals  April  and  May, 
And  the  little  young  year,  who  fetters  his  flight 
On  your  wondering  beauty  to  t^aze  with  delight" 

Taps  the  wind  at  your  window,  and  says,  "Oho! 

I  have  traveled  afar,  over  mountain  and  plain 
And  the  whole  world  has  but  one  song,  I  know, 

And  the  dead  and  the  living  sing  one  refrain. 
The  nests  in  the  green  wood  are  echoing  above, 
'The  Spring  has  returned,  let  us  love,  love,  love.' 
And  out  of  the  grave  comes  a  chorus  of  sighs, 
'Love,  love,  love,  for  remember,  *.ime  flies.'  " 

At  the  gate  of  that  flowering  garden,  your  heart 

My  thought  gently  taps;  "May  I  enter?"  it  asks; 
"I  am  a  traveller,  and  lost  is  my  chart. 

Weary  and  sad,  I  would  rest  from  my  tasks. 
Beneath  these  green  boughs  I  would  linger  forever 
To  dream  of  a  bliss  that  has  come  to  me  never: 
Here  would  I  rest  with  my  quiet  thoughts,  deeming 
Sufficient  for  me  is  the  joy  of  the  dreaming." 


77 


LIII 
DI  PARTITA 

0  sweetest  lady,  now  that  we  must  part 

Dark  lies  the  earth  and  all  the  skies  are  grey. 

1  hear  an  owl — its  echo  is  my  heart — 

I  hate  it.  and  the  trees  along  the  way. 
The  trees  along  the  way,  that  stare  and  stare, 
Standing  in  dumb  surprise,  so  stark  and  bare, 
Nodding  their  heads,  gazing  at  you  and  me 
And  turning  always.     Dismal  company! 

O  dismal  throng,  why  do  you  nod  above? 

"It  is  at  Death  we  gaze  so  silently 
We  are  the  ghosts  of  all  thy  thoughts  of  love 

We  are  the  ghosts  of  loving  thoughts  of  thee. 
Yesterday's  bird  sang  sweet  among  the  flowers, 
But  love  and  life  fly  swift  as  summer  hours. 
Todav  we  follow  to  their  burial  place, 
And     ark  the  world  until  we  see  her  face!" 


78 


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LIV 
DISPERATA 

Love  rides  upon  the  horse  of  Death 

And  drags  the  Heart  behind  in  chain*: 

But  the  Heart  of  slavery  wearieth, 
His  cruel  master  he  disdains: 

He  breaks  his  bonds  with  menace  and  scorn. 

"Love,  lazy  God,  it  cannot  be  borne! 

Down  from  the  saddle,  thou  cowardiv  knave, 

I  alone  have  made  thee,  and  thou  art  my  slave! 

I  made  thee  lord  of  thoughts  that  were  vain, 

Now  of  my  strong  thoughts  I  make  thee  the  slave, 
I  hold  in  my  hand  the  whip  and  the  rein, 

Mine  is  the  black  horse  one  rides  to  the  grave!" 
A  brave  cavalier,  to  the  saddle  he  bounds 
Saluting  the  infinite  with  a  curt  nod, 
And  under  the  feet  of  the  black  horse  resounds 
The  whole  world,  like  the  sad  Acre  of  God. 


7tt 


•ifl«- 


LV 

BALLATA  DOLOROSA 

A  pale  face,  shrouded  in  a  thick  black  veil, 
Makes  me  once  more  aware  of  death  that  waits. 
Yet  I'll  not  join  the  crowd  that  seeks  thy  gates, 

0  graveyard,  when  the  winds  of  winter  wail. 

To  me  the  whole  world  like  a  graveyard  lies 
Even  in  the  shining  sun  of  radiant  May, 
When  zephyrs  stir  the  waters  and  the  trees 
And  sweet  desires  from  the  violets  rise, 
And  thro'  the  green  the  birds  sing  roundelay 
And  roses  with  sweet  ardor  scent  the  lees. 
When  the  world's  filled  with  love's  sweet  ecstasies 
And,  open-armed,  the  young  girls  dance  and  run, 

1  see  a  face  between  me  and  the  sun — 

A  pale  face,  shrouded  in  a  thick  black  veil. 


80 


LVI 
BEFORE  A  CATHEDRAL 

Now  the  triumphant  sun 

On  the  earth  may  work  his  will; 

In  the  hot  air,  brooding,  still, 
Immense  midsummer  glares. 

Beneath  the  azure  dome 
Like  lakes  ot  flame  a-glow 
Inert,  they  lie  below 

The  silent  city  squares. 

There  peers  a  sweaty  fa^e; 
A  thing  of  dread  it  seisms, 
As  its  yellow  pallor  gleams 

From  the  vapors  around  it&  head. 

Say,  is  it  cool  in  the  shade 

Of  the  great  nave,  dark,  obsaire, 
In  the  urns,  all  white  and  pur*. 

O  skulls  of  the  ancient  dead? 


81 


tlr.  y^^  '1  Jl^ 


LVII 
TO  THE  DEAD 

Pale  on  the  lips  of  love 

The  languid  roses  lie ; 
Not  a  flower  is  le*t  to  prove 

The  youth  that  has  passed  me  by. 

The  hours  dance  far  away, 
With  them  is  fled  my  faith: 

Illusions,  they  would  not  stay. 
Of  hope  is  left  but  a  wraith 

The  pure  and  undying  fires 
Of  love — they  flicker  of  late. 

The  passionate  desires 

That  were  scornfully  mocked  by  Fate 

I  have  buried  all  these  in  my  breast 
And  of  the  place  where  they  lie, 

With  dreary  memory  opprest 
A  dreary  custodian  I. 

But  the  blood  in  my  veins  is  still  red: 
Drink,  let  us  drink  ere  we  part ; 

Drink,  let  us  dnnk  to  the  dead. 

For  down  with  the  dead  is  my  heart. 

Buried  beneath  the  black  earth, 

Quietly  waiting,   they  lie. 
Now  Spring  has  come;  with  her  mirth 

Perhaps  she  will  wake  them!     Not  I. 


82 


They  hear  the  soft  wind  as  it  moans, 
They  feel  its  light  breath  and  its  sigh, 

And,  out  of  the  dust  of  their  bones, 
They  feel  the  green  grass,  growing  high. 

April  sings  sweet  in  the  sun. 

Say,  canst  thou  hear  her  below? 
Ah,  little  lad,  once  all  mine  own, 

Art  thou  lonely .'     Fain  would  I  know. 

Has  he  called  to  thee,  that  other. 

From  his  distant  grave  down  there, 
My  brother,  my  fair  young  brother. 

With  the  beautiful  chestnut  hair? 

Do  thy  Krandfathcrs  come  to  rock  thee 

As  on  gloomy  days  of  yore, 
One  from  the  Tuscan  hills. 

And  one  from  the  Tuscan  shore? 

Art  thou  safe  in  my  mother's  arms. 
Pressed  close  to  her  lonelj   breast? 

Far  from  the  world's  alarms 
On  her  faithful  bosom,  rest. 

But  ah,  let  us  drink,  let  us  drink; 

The  sun  turns  pale  in  the  skies. 
And  the  ground  begins  to  sink 

And  the  frost  begins  to  rise. 

Like  whimpering  owls    n  a  row 
On  the  walls  of  a  convent  old. 

So  thoughts  of  the  long  ago 
Sob  in  my  heart,  a-cold. 


83 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  ond  ISO     c5T  CHART  No    2 


1.0 


I.I 


!.25 


!  2^8       II  2.5 


-  m 

III  2.2 

-       |36          ™l^ 

.-  m      2.0 

1.8 

1.4 

1.6 

^      >1PPL.IED  iNA^GE     Inc 


Down  in  the  utter  dark 

Do  they  live  as  they  lived  above? 
Do  they  know  the  song  of  the  lark, 

And  the  world  of  beauty  and  love? 

To  a  shining  land  have  they  fled 

Where  lovers  never  part? 
O,  I  have  gone  down  with  the  dead, 

With  the  dead  have  I  buried  my  heart. 


S4 


LVIII 
SAN  MARTI  NO 

Above  the  rising  mist 

The  ragged  hills  are  lined, 

Under  the  lash  of  the  wind 
Howls  the  whitening  sea; 

But  thro'  the  life  of  the  town 

Comes  the  harsh  smell  of  the  wine 
Of  boiling  vats  the  sign 

To  rejoice  the  soul  of  me. 

Over  the  burning  logs 

Turns  the  crackling  spit  once  more; 

The  hunter  stops  at  the  door 
To  whistle  and  gaze  and  sing. 

Across  the  reddening  clouds 
Dark  flocks  of  birds  are  flying 
As  exiled  thoughts  come  sighing 

Home  in  the  evening. 


I 


85 


LIX 
IN  CARNIA 

On  the  summits  of  the  Tenca 
Close  beneath  the  azure  skies 

Tapestried  with  glowing  emerald 
Fair  the  elfin  ball-room  lies. 

From  the  stars  with  still  Aurora 
In  the  morning,  pearled  and  cold 

Nimbly  come  the  twinkling  fairies 
Under  moving  clouds  of  gold. 

From  far  Germany  they  hasten 
In  the  dawn  to  join  the  dance 

At  their  steps  beneath  the  pine-trees 
Black  and  green  the  shadows  glance. 

Laughing  at  the  roaring  river 
Shattering  the  startled  air; 

On  the  shining  silver  ripples 

Streams  their  shining  golden  hair. 

Icy  is  the  mountain  river, 
Cold  its  touch  on  elfin  skins. 

On   the  summit  of  the  Tenca 
Soon  the  fairy  dance  begins. 

White  their  vesture,  rosy-veiled. 
Nimbus-like  their  golden  tresses, 

Laughing  they  abandon  them 
To  the  zephyr's  wild  caresses. 


8G 


Sudden,  soft  and  silvery  voices 
Like  a  harp  with  singing  strings 

To  their  sisters  of  Acarnia 
Call  with  sweetest  echoings, 

Thro'  the  perfume  of  the  pine-trees, 
'Twixt  the  flowers  of  the  grove, 

From  the  vale  ascends  the  chorus 
Chanting  mystery  and  love. 

On  the  rock  of  the  Moscardo, 

Doing  penance,  a  spirit  sits, 
Doomed  to  shatter  with  his  mallet 

All  the  mountains  into  bits. 

When  he  hears  the  dancing  fairies 
He  forgets  the  labor  waiting; 

Poised  in  air  his  weary  mallet 
While  he  gazes,  palpitating. 

Though  the  elves  deign  not  to  linger 
Near  the  doomed  sou),  yet  'twould  seem 

That  the  savage  on  the  mountain 
Is  content  to  gaze  and  dream, 

Yet,  sometimes,  with  love  and  longing, 
For  his  brow  he  weaves  a  wreath, 

Sometimes  dons  a  crimson  mantle 
With  his  sorrow  hid  beneath. 

Now,  alas!     Thy  ways,  O  Tenca, 

Nevermore  the  fairies  wend, 
Silvery-crashing,  thro'  green  darkness, 

Lonelv  must  the  But  descend. 


^f 


87 


And  the  damned  one  on  Moscardo, 
Pausing  not  to  love  and  gaze, 

Hamnering,  with  rage  and  sorrow, 
Night  and  day  the  mountain  flays. 

Alas?  all  charming  fantasies 

Are  exiled  from  my  heart  and  brain, 
The  torrent  of  sad  memories 

No  more  can  I  restrain. 

No  more  within  the  fast-closed  heart 
May  steal  a  light-foot  fairy  vision. 

For  it  is  shattered,  bit  by  bit, 
By  sorrow  and  passion. 


88 


LX 

A  VISION 

The  tardy  sun  in  the  wintry  sky, 

Glittering,  conquered  the  pallid  mist; 

Tender  young  sprouts  in  the  field  nearby 

Smiled    from    the    new-ploughed    ground,    sun- 
kissed. 

Waves  of  the  Po  ran  royally 

Sparkling,  the  Mincio  ran  whist. 
The  soul  spread  dream-wings  wide  and  high 

Toward  the  ideal  its  youth  had  missed. 

Silently  poised  beneath  gleaming  skies 

Placid  the  fata  nwrgana  lay 

And  youth  claimed  the  heart  how  joyfully! 

There  without  sorrows  or  memories 

It  gleamed  like  a  green  island,  far  away, 

Surrounded  by  pale  serenity. 


89 


LXI 
TO  ALEXANDER  DANCONA 

0,  wanderer  over  Europe's  wooded  lieiKhts 
Searcher  for  myths,  akin  or  far  apart, 

Thy  wedding  day  draws  near ;  while  its  sweet  rites 
Disturb  thy  heart. 

1,  wlicrc  with  crisply  rippled  bosom  h>s 
Spread  to  the  infinite  cerulean. 

With  a  thousand  echoes  to  the  shore  and  skies, 
The  fair  Tyrrhenian, 

And,  wandering  from  the  hilltop,  sunny,  warm, 

Where  ruined  palaces,  like  spent  foam,  be. 
The  old  green  earth  proffers  a  friendly  arm 
To  the  pale  green  sea ; 

Where,  fled  the  unclean  vapors  of  the  mind. 
By  quivering  and  healthful  breezes  blown; 
Our  hearts  are  given  to  friends  and  to  the  wind 
All  cares  are  thrown, 

Once  more  before  those  gods  would  make  libation 
Who  sit  on  my  mind's  height  and  bide  their  time; 
And  Grecian  muses  for  your  relaxation 
Shall  take  my  rhyme. 

Fear  not  that  I  shall  stain  with  learned  dust 

The  white  veil  of  thy  wife,  nor  her  white  thought 
Nor  speak  of  thmgs  bv  a  gross  age  of  lust 
With  grosser  mysteries  fraught. 


90 


Pernicious  age!    A  hydra-headed  beast, 

Death  charges  on  a  blind  world  plunged  in  gloom, 
And  man  may  leave  the  cloister  and  the  priest — 
But  only  fo.  the  tomb. 

Sun-hating  spectres,  hideous,  malign, 

Dance  over  hills  and  vales  and  thro'  the  wood ; 
Their  ghastly  sacrifices  gleam  and  shine 
And  stain  like  blood. 

Out  of  rude  towers,  monasteries  mute, 

From  that  dense  prison  with  hairy  roots  entwined 
Whence  life  must  send  its  ultimate  salute 
To  the  desert  wind, 

Arises  the  wicked  sloth,  inimical 

To  nature  and  to  spirit.     Troublous  dreams 
Bring  man  to  impotence,  and  trivial 
All  aspiration  seems. 

Where  fair  Phtiotis  separates  the  seas. 

Where  glittering  chariots  and  armor  shine. 
Death  and  the  weeping  Thetis  seek  amid  these 
Achilles'  strength  divine. 

He  fought  each  day,  yet  each  night  after  strife 

His  lone  harp  sang,  with  th'  ^gean  blending; 
To  Dis  and  to  the  Muses,  to  brief  life, 
Thus  condescending. 

Dull  terrors  of  the  middle  age,  vile  race 

From  mystery  and  barbarism  springing; 
Away,  pale  shapes !    The  sun  ye  cannot  face, 
Nor  Homer,  singing. 


01 


LXII 
HELLENIC  SPRINGTIMES 

(L     i^olian) 

Now  bends  the  back  of  blustering  winter  hoar, 

High  in  the  frosty  air  mounts  evening, 
And  in  my  soul,  O  Lina,  flowers  once  more, 
The  gentle  spring. 

See,  where  the  rose-lit  summit  of  the  mountain 

Of  Phaedra  lifts  its  snowy  sparkling  line — 
The  singing  ripples  of  Castalia's  fountain 
Murmur  and  shine. 

Clear  sound  the  Delphic  tripods,  echoing  long 

As  they  invoke  Apollo  lest  he  fail 
To  come  once  more  with  paeans  and  the  song 
Of  the  nightingale. 

From  wintry  shores  to  our  blest  soil  he  flies. 

From  torpid  ice  to  laurels,  blossoming, 
Two  swans  draw  him  thro'  gently  smiling  skies 
On  swift  white  wing. 

Upon  his  head  he  wears  Jove's  golden  band, 
Soft  in  his  flowing  hair  the  winds  suspire 
All  tremulous  with  love,  and  in  his  hand 
The  golden  lyre. 

Here,  where  the  old  gods  lived  and  loved  one  day 

The  whirling  Cyclades  are  dancing  lightly; 
Cyprus  and  Cythera  dash  hieh  their  spray, 
Applauding  whitely. 


A  ship  with  purple  sails,  melodious, 

Following  lightly  thro'  th'  JEgan  sea, 
Brings,  with  his  golden  plectrum,  Alcaeus 
Armed  cap-a-pie. 

Apollo  passes,  and  the  softened  air 

Is  sweet  with  his  ambrosia.     Following  after 
White-bosomed  Sappho  of  the  violet  hair 
And  wanton  laughter 

Breathes  deep  of  him ;  ah,  Lina,  quietly 
_The  oars  are  hanging ;  gently  they  rise  and  fall 
On  th'  waters.     I,  of  iEolian  poetry, 
Last  son  of  all, 

Will  row  thee  soft  before  the  Grecian  wind : 

I  hate  the  tinkling  zithers :     unregretting 
We'll  leave  these  stained  shores  far,  far  behind- 
Forgetting. 


93 


6 
is 


LXIII 
HELLENIC  SPRINGTIMES 

(II.     Dorian) 

Know'st  thou  the  lovely  island  to  whose  shores 

Ionia's  last,  most  Iragrant  kiss,  is  borne; 
From  whose  sea  Galatea  still  adores 
Acis  the  faun  ? 

Where  Eryx  rises,  in  Pelasgian  shadow 

Eternal  Aphrodite  smiles  above 
And  blesses  all  the  coast    which  spread  below 
Trembles  with  love. 

When  Ennea   from  diminished  fires  infernal 
Returns,  the  hills  and  fields  to  love  awaken 
And  Ceres  dries  the  tears  of  eyes  maternal 
No  more  forsaken. 

Love,  love,  the  water  sighs,  as  Alpheus 

To  the  green  nuptial-bed  calls  Arethuse; 
Thus,  with  Achaian  echoes,  calls  to  us 
Italia's  m-ise. 

Love,  love  once  more,  of  poets  for  the  songs 

Sung  and  resung  with  harp  and  clashing  cymbal; 
Thro'  Dorian  forums  rush  the  shouting  throngs 
In  Bacchic  revel. 

I  ask  not  for  thy  towers,  O  S\  racuse. 

Nor  Agrigento,  thine:     Beneath  the  palms 
The  palace  lies,  where  speaks  the  Theban  muse 
In  surging  psalms. 

»4 


Where  is  that  vale  in  the  Nebrodian  mountaint, 

Heautiful,  solitary,  crowned  with  pine, 
Where  Daphne's  sliepln  rd  san^  amon^  the  fountains 
Verses  divine  ■' 

"No  wealth  of  Koldcn  tuiviits  comes  to  me, 
Of  Pclop's  isle  I  may  not  be  the  king, 

Never,  on  quick  feet  H\iiii;,  niav  1  be 
Wind-conquering! 

I>et  ine  but  sine,  hi^jh  on  these  h)nflv  rocks, 

Thou  in  my  arms,  nestlinjj  so  tenderly. 
Watching,  afar,  the  white  and  grazing  Hocks 
Down  by  the  sea." 

Thus  sang  the  Dorian  youth.     The  nightingale 

Hushed  its  own  song  to  listen  unto  this. 
Snaring  thy  Grecian  soul  in  the  white  veil 
Of  Beatrice, 

In  this  my  verse  I'd  lure  thee  to  a  sea 

Whose  shores  lie  shining  m  husheti  idleness; 
And  in  fair  fields  where  sweet  serenity 
Each  heart  doth  bless, 

Lina,  I'll  waken  for  thee  on  the  hill 

The  dryads  light  of  foot,  with  golden  tresses, 
And  gods  whose  memories  thou  shalt  fulfil 
Of  goddesses! 

Other  gods  die:    not  so  the  gods  of  Greece: 

Dormant  they  lie  beneath  eternal  seas, 
In  mountains,  rivers,  or  they  sleep  in  peace 
In  trunks  of  trees. 


05 


Before  the  Christ,  to  riKid  marble  death 

The  flower  of  their  pure,  naked  beauty  fades. 
Only  our  verse,  O  Lina,  their  young  breath 
Still,  still  pervades. 

If  to  their  love,  beauty  doth  condescend, 
Or  if  a  poet  evoke  them  from  his  heart 
Laughing,  from  holy  nature's  depths  they  send 
A  lightning  dart. 

Behold  the  dancing  Dryads,  all  a-glow, 

"What    age,"    they    cry,    "has   made    so    fair    a 
thing?" 
"Sister,  thy  native  country  we  would  know," 
The  Oreads  sing. 

"Sorrow  doth  sit  between  thy  starry  eyes; 

Has  wicked  Aphrodite  wounded  thee? 
A  cruel  goddess  torments  can  devise 
In  jealousy. 

Helen,  among  you  mortals  shines  alone, 

Who  brewed  nepenthe  for  the  heroes'  thirst: 
But  we  have  ta'en  Earth's  secrets  for  our  owm, 
Blest  and  accurst! 

We'll  find  a  wondrous  balm  for  thee,  the  tears 

Shed  for  their  transformed  lives  by  weeping  pines, 
And  pearls  of  Amphitrite.  milky  spheres 
From  hidden  shrines. 

Strange  flowers  we'll  pluck  for  thee,  instinct  with 
life. 
They,  knowing  joy.  experienced  in  pain, 
Old  tales  of  ancient  loves,  and  war  and  strife, 
Shall  tell  again. 

96 


They  shall  translate  the  weeping  of  the  rose 

That  droops  uith  dear  desire  upon  thy  breast, 
The  hymns  of  her  white  sister  shall  disclose 
At  thy  behest. 

Then  we  will  seek  the  grotto's  eerie  light 

Where  in  effulgence  crystal,  amethyst 
Eternal  elements  dance  all  the  night 
In  sombre  tryst 

And  thou  shalt  bathe  in  some  on-rushing  river 
Where  silver  swans  and  naiads  sing  in  tune; 
See  on  the  waves  their  gleaming  flanks  a-quiver 
Like  the  new  moon! 

Now  to  the  neighboring  hill-top  follow,  follow 

Where  Zeus  the  father  gazes,  most  benign; 
There  shalt  thou  hear  the  lyre  of  Apollo 
And  verse  divine. 

Then  in  ou'-  courts  where  fragrant  breezes  blow 

Hylas  the  fair  shall  be  thy  ardent  lover, 
He  whom  we  loved,  and  would  not  let  him  go 
Lest  Death  discover." 

Alas,  since  on  thine  age  has  set  the  sun, 

All  men  are  borne  to  sorrow,  bereft  of  peace. 
Envy  me  not  this  love  that  I  have  won, 
Maidens  of  Greece! 

The  secret  care  that  sears  her  tender  heart 

Fain  would  I  heal  with  Ascra's  honeyed  words, 
Or  soothe  it  with  the  ever-living  art 
Of  Theban  chords. 


07 


1.1   I 


Were  I  AIcjeus,  in  garments  sacramental 
Weft  of  the  shining  filaments  of  song 
I'd  clothe  her — crown  with  flowers  that  to  th'  im- 
mortal 

Alone  belong, 

And  then  beneath  my  guardian  laurel-tree, 

Hyacinth  bells  lifting  beneath  her  feet, 
Upon  her  breast  I'd  murmur  tenderly, 
"I  love  thee,  sweet." 


98 


LXIV 
HELLENIC  SPRLNGTIMES 

(in.     Alexandrian) 

Coldly  the  wind  from  afar  wandered  blustering 
Between  the  white  columns ;  above,  on  the  sepulchres 

Lads  with  their  sweethearts  shivered 

And  all  the  roses  quivered. 

Beneath  the  gray  sky  of  a  sad  day  of  May 
Slow  drizzling  and  subtle,  assiduous. 

With  tiresome  rhythm  the  rain 

Beat  on  the  muddy  plain. 

Till  chilled  by  the  breath  of  the  shivering  breezes 
Close  round  her  shoulders  her  soft  veil  she  gathered, 

Then  tied  it  around  her  breast 

And  close  to  my  side  she  pressed. 

Voluptuous,  languid,  endearing  the  gesture 
As  to  its  native  Orient  the  palm  turns, 
Beneath  the  Gothic  arches 
Where  we  stood,  among  the  larches. 

Above  the  sad  tombs  of  the  dead  once  beloved 
Quiet,  she  gazed,  then  her  slim  brow  she  lifted 

So  palely  sweet  and  fair 

Beneath  the  flowing  hair, 

Upon  her  lithe  neck  so  carelessly  tumbled 
Shining  around  her  with  softening  glamour: 

On  my  heart  like  rain  from  above 

Fell  looks  and  accents  of  love, 

99 


.!■■■■■..-«'  ^^P:*a:.  .,'!^^ 


laiitadiiiBifife 


mm 


'-1- 


Gentle  and  sweet;  ah,  never  more  tenderly 
Sounded  the  sighing  ot  harps  of  iEolia, 
Nor  spirits  murmuring  low 
Where  the  Lesbian  myrtles  grow. 

On  the  mute  marble  her  silken  dress  murmured, 
With  every  movement  it  rustled  and  whispered, 

And  the  winds  in  their  frolicsome  race 

Blew  her  hair  in  my  face. 

Never  to  me  have  the  tombs  seemed  so  wonderful, 
Not  in  young  dreams  of  a  glorious  future. 

O  love,  solemn  and  leal 

As  death's  own  seal! 

The  soul's  flower  lingered  in  exquisite  fragrance 
And  breathed  from  her  dear  lips  in  timorous  sighing. 

And  glimpsed  between  our  kisses 

Shone  never-ending  blisses; 

Fields  of  Elysium,  glorious  in  story 

Sounding  with  harps  and  the  games  of  old  heroes, 

And  filled  with  the  purple  ray 

Of  an  unfleeting  May, 

Where  w^ander  whispering,  sweetly  and  secretly 
(Where  neither  law  of  man  nor  cruel  destiny 

One  from  the  other  parts) 

Pnets  and  their  sweethearts. 


100 


-'•:,^^^i 


LXV 
A  BRANCH  OF  LAUREL 

0  gentle  maid  who  fled  by  Peneus, 
Daphne !    I  am  thy  sister ;  yesterday 

Slender  and  Greek,  I  blossomed  glorious 
By  the  Appian  way. 

Where  broken  columns  lie  in  ruined  gloom 

Lonely  I  dreamed,  remembering  other  days; 
Lifting  my  head  from  some  forgotten  tomb 
To  gaze  and  gaze. 

I  gazed  at  Latium's  cerulean  hills 
And,  bending  to  the  breeze  from  Tivoli 

1  breathed  the  verse  of  Horace — still  it  thrills 

With  sweetest  melody. 

Thro'  the  chill  air  to  branches  bare  so  long — 

Hearing  my  verse — sped  birds  on  frisking  wing; 
Calling  the  roses.  May,  the  sun  and  song — 
Calling  the  spring. 

Poets  have  troubled  me  in  every  land ! 

Enotrio  grudged  my  place  the  tombs  beside 
And  plucked  me ;  but  in  that  harsh  poet's  hands 
I  drooped  and  died. 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  be  engarlanded 
A  gentle  shadow  for  thy  lovely  brow ! 
That  green  and  lofty,  o'er  thy  raven  head, 
Might  wave  my  bough! 


101 


w 


■--lyK'fei.^'* 


-■M*^rttpm-fmH  :jc::irrfigT'3P'.'%'f 


In  that  suect  language  ..novvn  to  thee  and  me, 

Drooping  above  thy  pure  and  dainty  ear 
Of  Grecian  loves,  legends  of  Italy, 
I'd  sing  thee,  dear. 

To  these  sweet  notes  thy  sad  eye  would  respond 

With  that  sweet  smile  it  never  can  refuse, 
And  dropped  upon  thy  soft  cheek,  tender,  fond. 
Were  April's  dews. 


i02 


m 


LXVI 

MEMORIES  OF  SCHOOL 

'Twas  in  mid-June,  a  fair  and  perfect  day 

The  heart  of  Messidore :  the  wedded  earth 

Burned  in  the  hot  embraces  of  the  sun, 

Which  like  a  fiery  torrent  swept  across 

The  desert  of  an  incandescent  sky, 

While  underneath  the  sea  laughed.     Not  so  I, 

A  little  lad — I  did  not  laugh:  the  priest, 

Black-clad,   with  croaking  voice,  blasphemed   "To 

Love," 
His  face  a  weariness  to  look  upon. 
Meanwhile  before  the  window  of  the  school 
A  saucy  cherry-tree  gazed  in  at  me, 
Winking  its  crimson  fruit,  and  whispering 
Mysterious  stories  to  the  wandering  breeze. 
Then  I  forgot  the  priest;  the  conjugations 
Seemed  files  of  ants  upon  the  yellow  page 
And  I  set  free  my  longing  eyes  and  thoughts 
And  sent  them  out  o'  window,  where  they  strayed 
To  sky  and  mountain,  thence  far,  far  away 
To  gaze  upon  the  curved  line  of  the  sea. 
A  thousand  choirs  of  birds  poured  out  their  songs 
In  the  sunlight,  and  the  ancient  trees  bent  down, 
Gentle  custodians  of  their  chirping  nests. 
The  humming  bees  sped  to  the  shrubs,  the  flowers 
Sighed  for  the  kisses  of  the  butterfly: 
And  swarming  over  stems  and  grass  and  sand. 
Thousands  each  moment,  were  palpitating  lives 
And  indiscriminate  loves.    The  frownine  mountains, 
The  tranquil  hills,  the  harvest  gently  swaying 
Between  the  forest  and  the  blooming  vines 
And  even  the  horrid  thicker  and  brier-patch 
And  livid  moor,  all  seemed  to  jubilate 

103 


't 


In  youth  eternal,  spent  beneath  the  sun. 
When,  how  I  know  not,  from  the  very  fount 
Of  life  within  me,  hurged  the  thought  of  death, 
And  of  the  formless  nothing  following  death. 
Coniparint;;  this,  the  infinite  knowing  all 
With  knowing  naught :  seeing  my  body  laid 
In  the  black  earth,  cold,  motionless,  and  mute, 
While  over  me  the  birds  sang,  and  the  trees 
Rustled  and  rivers  rippled  and  all  things 
Were  re-created  in  the  flooding  light 
Of  that  divine  sun ;  wholly  then  did  I 
Accept  the  full  significance  of  death 
And  truly  was  affrighted.     Even  today, 
In  my  mind's  eye,  I  see,  rising  before  me, 
That  childish  vision,  and  my  heart  turns  cold 
As  though  submerged  beneath  an  icy  wave. 


104 


LXVII 
AN  IDYL  OF  MAY 

'Tis  May,  beloved  of  Dante,  who  would  fill 

The  ways  with  lust, 
With  flowering  acacia  the  hill, 

The  house  with  flies  and  dust. 

'Tis  May,  who  lets  her  trailing  roses  fall 
O'er  deep-laid  bones  to  wander. 
Who  to  this  brothel,  life,  would  fain  recall 
'"he  sun,  divine  pander: 

May,  with  sweet  memories  and  sweeter  tears, 

Can  you  not  let  me  be? 
These  are  the  stories  of  three  thousand  years; 

Old  May,  you  weary  me! 

Go,  fetch  soft  sleep  and  shadows,  murmuring 
To  dogs  and  shepherd  swains ; 

Your  flowers  and  litanies  to  Mary  bring, 
Apulian  brigands  to  the  plains: 

Go,  for  the  forest  trees  and  fields  unsown 
Of  nests  and  leaves  would  tell ; 

Who  hides  the  sins  of  Venus  in  blood  and  bone 
Would  curse  thee  well: 

Beside  the  courtyard  wall,  where  I  may  feel 

Thy  feeble,  mocking  ray, 
I  forge  a  song  as  strong  and  sure  as  steel 

And  fling  it  to  thee,  May. 


105 


I* 


•/ 


I  know:  it  was  thro'  tliy  ^ray  vapors  shone 

\XT   L    1^^''*^'  ^^  'trough  smoke  a  flame; 
With  thy  hrst  stars,  and  thy  first  flowers  alone 
That,  goddess-like,  she  came, 

Plucked  where  she  sat  the  tender  violet 

For  me,  then  hid  her  face 
And  fled.     I  hear  her  silken  garment  yet 

Where  roses  interlace; 

And  still  above  her  fair  head,  gently  bent 

To  meet  with  mine, 
I  see,  trembling  in  the  pure  firmament, 

The  star  of  evening  shine. 

Then,  roaring  like  a  drunkard,  came  the  storm 

Across  the  darkening  vale; 
To  what  deep  harmony  did  the  hills  transform 

Its  inchoate  wail ; 

And  then.  O  Dante,  I  remembered  thee 

And  the  face  that  led  above, 
White-veiled  and  smiling  with  serenity, 

While  all  the  heavens  rained  love. 

"As  violets  enjoy  the  warmer  sun, 

In  thee  my  heart  finds  ease. 
I  cannot  down  these  chops  so  nicelv  done- 

My  coffee,  please." 

Thus,  underneath  some  courteous  chestnut-trees. 
May  sings  within  mv  breast. 

Meanwhile  how  many  Chinese  dynasties 
Have  gone  to  their  long  rest? 


108 


Now  is  this  I  ?     Is't  thus  the  heart  should  sing 

That  beats  within  mc,  wild  ? 
I  hat  soars  upon  unconquered  condor  wing 

O'er  forests  undefiled  ? 

How  simple  and  how  strong  doth  rise  the  rhyme 

Of  my  lone  dreams! 
Beneath,  how  jaded  with  the  stress  of  Time 

Old  nature  seems! 

How  sordid  is  this  silly  masquerade 

Of  rose  and  violet! 
O  sun,  to  what  strange  pallor  dost  thou  fade, 

How  still  the  sky  is  set! 


107 


r 

-^1 


m 


•> 


LXVIII 

AN  IDVL  OK    THE  MAREMMA 

With  the  first  ray  nf  April,  Hooding  fair 
Mv  room,  sudden  I  look,  and  here  thou  art, 
Oh,  mv  heart's  Marv   of  the  shining  hair. 

After  oblivion,  my  forgetful  heart 

Would  rest  in  thoughts  of  tiiec.  weary  of  strife; 

O  dawn  of  love,  m\   first  love,  set  apart, 

Where  art  thou  i*      For  the  joys  of  wedded  life 
Thou  h.'ist  not  missed:  thy  native  town  surely 
Hails  thee  as  happy  mother,  lovmg  wife. 

The  daring  flank,  the  rest'- e  bosom's  sigh, 
Under  the  veil,  gave  promise  of  delight; 
Marital  love  has  never  passed  thee  bv. 

Strong  sons  thv  breast  has  fed  to  work  and  fight, 
And  boldly  now  the\   leap  at  thv  swift  glance 
Into  the  saddle,  and  are  out  of  sight. 

Love  of  my  youth,  I  see  thee  now  advance 
Retveen  the  smooth  waves  of  the  new-turned  earth, 
Flowers    in    thv    hand,    which    meets    with    mine, 
perchance. 

Smiling  and  tall,  with  quick  eyes  made  for  mirth. 
A  look  within  them,  strangely  wild  and  bold. 
In  eyes  as  widely  blue  as  at  thy  birth! 

Blue,  like  the  blossoms  found  amid  the  gold 
Of  garnered  wheat,  beneath  thy  shining  hair 
Thy  deep  eyes  flower.  ,ind  nil  delights  unfold. 

ins 


Sudden,  as  thou  dost  pass,  flames  summer  there! 
Faint  thro'  green  trees  the  ardent  sun  doth  rise; 
The  red  pomegranate,  sparkling,  takes  its  share. 

The  strutting  peacock  opens  all  the  eyes 

Of  his  great  tail  to  watch,  as  thou  dost  pass, 

And  greets  thee,  as  his  goddess,  with  harsh  cries. 

Now  dark  I  see  my  life,  as  in  a  glass, 
So  moribund  and  sorry  and  obscure, 
'Twere  better  to  be  wed  to  thee,  dear  lass! 

Better,  disconsolate,  to  try  to  lure 

Back  to  its  pasture  green  the  scattered  herd. 

Though,  were  I  herdsman,  their  escape  were  sure. 

Better  all  this,  than  matching  word  with  word 
In  trifling  verse.     Ah,  working,  to  forcret 
The  galling  trickery  of  a  game  absu.. 

Insidious  thoughts,  like  worms,  mv  dull  brain  fret. 

Unhappy  words  are  all  that  I  can  find 

To  write,  and  spoken  words  are  sadder  yet. 

Ruined  the  sinews  of  my  sovereign  mind ; 
My  bones  are  foul  with  inner  strife.  I  know. 
And,  like  one  mad,  I  wrestle  with  the  wind. 

O  wheie  the  softly  sighing  poplars  grow 
Beside  the  little  chapel's  sweet  content, 
Within  whose  shade  on  saints'  days  is  a  row 

Of  rustic  seats,  whence,  brown,  one's  gaze  is  bent 
Upon  the  sail-flecked  sea,  or  on  the  plain, 
New-ploughed,  or  on  the  churchyard's  sad  portent! 

lO't 


O  sweet  to  meet  and  greet  and  meet  again 

In  the  hot  silence  of  a  summer  noon, 

Or  gathered  round  the  hearth,  to  hear  the  rain! 

It  were  a  better  glory  to  attune 

To  little  children's  ears  a  story  true 

Of  proven  strength,  the  chase  beneath  the  moon, 

Spearing  with  ringer,  as  the  flames  dance  blue, 
The  slantmg  wounds  that  felled  the  boar  to  show, 
Than  with  rhymed  lying  ballads  to  pursue 

Cowards  of  Italy— and  Trissottino. 


no 


LXIX 

CLASSICISM  AND  ROMANTICISM 

The  sun  is  kind ;  to  help  man  at  his  labors 

His  rays  are  joyous  thralls; 
The  golden  wheat  droops,  heavy  with  his  favors, 

And  for  the  sickle  calls. 

He  smiles  upon  the  plough-share,  damp  with  dew, 

Among  brown  earthen  clods 
Where  the  slow  ox  comes  lumbering  askew 

And  down  the  hillside  plods. 

Between  tne  twining  tendrils,  veiling,  long, 
The  gemmed  grapes  flash  his  gold, 

And  on  the  autumn's  last  inebriate  song 
He  still  smiles,  sad  and  old. 

Upon  a  steep  and  blackened  city  roof 
The  wandering  sunbeams  stray ; 

They  shine  upon  a  child  who  works  aloof 
From  all  things  young  and  gay. 

Sweet  counsellings  of  spring  and  love  they  give ; 

Her  drooping  spirit  flies 
To  meet  the  light;  song  and  the  will  to  live. 

Like  praise,  arise. 

But  thou,  O  Moon,  dost  vile  success  insure 

To  ruin  and  lustful  ways; 
Nor  ever  flower  or  fruit  didst  thou  mature 

With  thy  fantastic  rays. 


Ill 


t 


Where  Hunger  sleeps  forgetful  in  the  dark 

All  window-blinds  are  vain : 
To  memory  thou  dost  rouse  him,  cold  and  stark, 

Of  the  morrow's  grief  and  pain. 

And  then  thou  dost  adorn  the  Gothic  spires 

With  milky  languors, 
Of  poetasters  rouse  the  weak  desi.es — 

Of  futile  lovers. 

Then,  pompoiis,  in  the  graveyard,  ancient,  dank, 
Wouldst  thou  refresh  thy  sight ; 

Wouldst  strive  to  rival  gleaming  skull  and  shank 
With  thy  cold  light. 

I  hate  thy  round,  dull  face,  O  stupid  one. 

Thy  white-starche !  pinny, 
Infecund  and  lascivious  little  nun. 

Celestial  ninny. 


113 


LXX 

THE  MOONS  REVENGE 

Ah !  surely  once  when  dusky  evening  crept 
Beside  thy  cot  with  sweetest  visions  laden ; 
Ah!  surely  then,  the  white  moon,  whilst  thou  slept. 
Gazed  at  thee,  maiden. 

Weary,  serene,  the  goddess  stole  beside  thee, 
A  cold  kiss  on  thy  tender  cheek  she  laid, 
And,  bending,  whispered,  "Ah,  thou  pleasest  mc, 
Little  white  maid!" 

And  at  her  *atcful  glance,  wherein  my  soul 
Now  swoons,  there  fell  a  gentle  rain  of  light, 
Tremulous  tY  ro*  the  green  it  softly  stole 
hat  April  night. 

Shf  dropped  upon  thy  lip  the  sad  complaint 
Of  nightingales  that  sing  in  leafy  May, 
When  woods  are  sweet,  and  thro'  soft  clouds  falls 
faint 

Her  silver  ray. 

Then,  welcoming  the  rosy  dawn,  she  mused, 
While  with  her  shimmering  and  languorous  grace 
Thy  fair  and  lovely  body  she  suflEused 
And  thy  sweet  face. 

Ah,  then  for  thy  dear  eyes,  within  whose  deep 
The  turmoil  of  my  heart  finds  blest  surcease. 
For  them,  while  a  rose-world,  smiling,  woke  from 
sleep, 

I  begged  for  peace: 


Peace  for  thy  smile,  where  calml\ ,  purely  flowers 
The  wild  desire  that  dormant  within  me  lies 
And  whose  fulfillment,  in  a  thousand  ways, 
Nature  implies. 

Ah,  though  thy  marble  beauty  breathes  of  soul 
And  dinas  my  sense  of  life — O  pure  and  white, 
While  still  I  gaze  upon  the  perfect  whole, 
A  sweetness  infinite 

And  strange  I  taste,  as  who  beneath  green  boughs 
Goes  wandering  e'er  the  fields  in  moonlight  lying. 
Where  in  fantastic  light  the  river  glows 
Murmuring,  sighing, 

And  feels  a  longing  for  an  unknown  love, 
The  gentle  sweetness  of  a  heart  astray. 
And,  lost  among  the  green  trees,  mute  above, 
Would  fade  away. 


114 


LXXI 

"DA  LA  QUAL  PAR  CHUNA  STELLA 
SI  MOVA" 

Guido  Cavalcanti 

A  July  holiday,  whose  burning  heat 
The  sultry  clouds  tried  vainly  to  diffuse: 
Within  the  Lombard  church  the  falling  day 
Shone  yellow,  thro'  pierced  columns,  on  the  pews. 
Thro'  the  arched  door,  whose  pleasure  'tis  to  burden 
Millennial  lions  with  its  weight  of  stone. 
Stole  noises  of  the  square,  lowing  of  oxen 
And  songs,  to  mingle  with  the  priestly  drone. 

Mass  had  been  sung,  and  loud  the  organ  raised 
Its  roaring  voice  to  summon  the  Most  High. 
Two  soldiers  stood  far  back  and  gazed  and  gazed 
At  the  high  altar,  with  unseeing  eye. 
They  did  not  see  the  candle's  festal  pride 
Nor  pomp  of  golden  tinsel  or  brocade. 
They  saw  the  church  of  their  own  country-side 
With  May-day  flowers  on  the  altar  laid. 

Beneath  the  curve  of  a  brown  arch  that  stands 
Upon  two  lifting  columns,  crimson,  slender, 
A  lovely  woman  knelt,  with  pleading  hands, — 
Ungloved  they  were,  and  beautiful,  and  tender. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  waving  plume 
Tearful  her  dark  glance  sparkled :  suddenly, 
In  a  lightning  flash  of  faith  across  the  gloom. 
With  God  the  woman  shared  her  mystery. 


b 


113 


And  then  I  saw,  as  Guido  saw  one  day, 

A  star  that  darted  from  her  lifted  eyes, 

And  from  her  lips,  which  scarcely  moved  to  pray, 

I  saw  the  figure  of  an  angel  rise. 

The  star  rose  trembling  in  a  tender  light 

And  smiled,  I  know  not  why,  as  still  it  soared ; 

The  supplicating  angel  winged  her  flight 

To  God,  with  gestures  pleading,  "Mercy,  Lord." 

Ite:  the  mass  was  said,  the  priest  turned  round. 
When  sudden  from  the  clustered  clouds  shone  down 
The  potent  sun,  the  kneeling  woman  found 
And  set  upon  her  head  a  rainbow  crown. 
Across  Byzantine  statues  sped  the  rays, 
With  vermil  modesty  they  smiled  above; 
But  the  Madonna  kept  her  staring  gaze 
Fast-bent  upon  her  son,  and  murmured,  "Love." 


116 


LXXII 

BEFORE  SAN  GUIDO 

Tall  and  straight  the  cypress  trees  lead  to  Bolghcri, 
Gallant  from  San  Guido  in  double  file  they  go; 
Like  young  giants  racing  they  came  leaping  down 

to  me, 
And  then  they  stood  and  looked  at  me,  as  they  did 

long  ago. 

Finally  they  knew  me,  and  they  bent  their  heads 

far  over 
Murmuring  a  welcome,  "So  you've  come  at  last," 

said  they — 
"Why  not  stay  with  us  awhile?     Don't  be  such  a 

rover. 
Fresh   and   cool   the   ev'ning,    and   you   know    the 

homeward  way. 

"O  sit  you  down  beneath  our  shade  and  breathe  its 

sweet  perfume, 
And  listen  to  the  mistral  wind  a-sighing  from  the 

sea. 
There  was  a  naughty  boy  once  (but  we've  forgotten 

whom) 
Who  loved  to  pelt  us  with  his  stones — we'll  not 

revengeful  be! 

"Still  vou'U  find  the  leafy  nests  of  the  nightingale 
Hid  among  our  branches — ah,  do  not  run  away! 
In  the  tranquil  evening  the  swallows  never  fail 
To   weave   their   flight   around   us;    Oh    rest    and 
watch  their  play!" 


117 


"Dear  old  expresses,  good  old  cypresses, 

Now  I  know  you  love  me  well,  as  in  the  days  of 

yore. 
Gladly  would  I  rest  me  here  beneath  your  sombre 

tresses, 
Gladly  would  I  stay  with  you,  but  ah!  ask  me  no 


more 


'( 


"Listen  to  me,   cypresses,  you  must  let  me  leave 

you — 
These   times   are   not   those   times — I'm   no   longer 

young,  you  see. 
If  you  only  knew!     W'ell,  if  I  must  undeceive  you! 
It's  not  for  me  to  say,  but  I'm  a  great  celebrity! 

I  can  read  in  Latin  and  I  can  read  in  Greek, 

And  I  write  and  I  write  and  have  talents  not  a  few. 

I'm   not  an  urchin   any  more,  and  stones  I   never 

seek 
To   throw   at   trees — well,   not   at   trees — oh,   that 

would  never  do!" 

Then  what  a  gentle  turning  and  whimpering  ^nd 

murmuring 
Arose  among  the  trees  as  each  shook  a  doubting 

head. 
The    faUiiii];    dav    smiled     sweetly,    derisively,    as 

shimmering 
Behind  the  green  depths,  it  turned  to  rosy-red. 

Then  I  understood  that  the  friendly  cypress-trees 
Felt  comnassion  for  my  state,  a  parleying  began ; 
They  talked   it  over  with   the  sun,   and  with   the 
swaying  breeze. 


118 


And    then   they   spoke,    "Alas,    we   know — you're 
nothing  but  a  man. 

"We  have  heard  it  all  from  the  wind  that  never 

tires, 
The  wind  that  steals  its  sighing  from  the  saddened 

hearts  of  men. 
We  know  tha;  hidden  in  your  breast  there  bum 

eternal  fires 
Of  strife;  once  lit,  ah,  who  knows  how  to  put  them 

out  again? 

"All  the  sadness  of  your  heart,  all  pain  and  human 

sorrow, 
V/ftisper  to  the  oak-trees  and  to  us — we'll  comfort 

you. 
See   how   sweetly   smiling,    with    promise    for    the 

morrow, 
The  sun  goes  down  behind  the  sea,  as  fair  it  lies, 

and  blue. 

"See  the  glorious  sunset,  full  of  flashing  wings. 
Hear  the  happy  sparrows,  garrulous  and  gay; 
Later,  when  the  evening  falls,  the  nightingale  sings. 
O  stay  with  us,  nor  seek  to  right  fantastic  wrongs. 
O  stay! 

"Fantastic  wrongs  arising  from  the  black  and  evil 
deep 

Of  hearts  that  cnisht  beneath  the  blows  of  thought, 
a-bleeding  lie. 

Will-o'-the-wisps  that  linger  where  your  dead,  for- 
gotten, sleep, 

To  flash  their  putrid  flames  before  the  timid 
p?sser-by. 

119 


if! 


"O  stay,  and  on  the  morrow,  when  the  sun  i«  tt 

mid-day 
And  the  horses  in  the  shadow  of  the  oak-trees  meet 

again 
To  switch  each  other  with  their  tails,  and  near  and 

far  away 
There  is  nothing  but  the  silence  of  the  great  and 

burning  plain, 

"Then  we  will  sing  the  old  songs,  we  cypresses, 
for  you, 

Eternal  choruses  that  echo  from  the  earth  and  sky; 

Out  of  these  elms  the  nymphs  shall  come  a-stealing 
into  view 

To  fan  you  with  their  white  veils,  as  they  go  flut- 
tering bv. 

"Immortal   Pan  goes  wandering  on  these  solitary 

heights 
Or  lingers  lonely  on  the  plain — he  loves  the  sun  at 

noon — 
And  all  the  discord  of  your  cares,  and  all  your  sad 

despites, 
To  this  divinest  harmony  he  quickly  will  attune." 

Then  I,  "Alas,  far,  far  away,  beyond  the  Apennines, 
My  little  Titti  waits  for  me,  and  you  must  let 

me  go. 
My  Titti  is  no  spiirow,  to  whom  the  Lord  assigns 
Feathers  for  dress — at  least,  I'm  sure  they've  not 

begun  to  grow! 

"And  cypress-berries  will  not  serve  to  satisfy  her 

greed : 
Nor  am  I  yet  Manzonian,  as  yet  I  cannot  sell 

120 


Myself  for  four  times  what  I'm  worth  to  make  my 
living  fine;  ,      ,        i  • 

So  fare  yc  well,  O  cypresses,  O  lovely  plain, 
farewell." 

But  how  can  we  It-t  your  old  grandmother  ask  in 

vain 
If   slie   >tiis  within   hi-r  gravp  nearby,   lonfjin^  tor 

news  of  \  ou  .' 
And    muttering,'    and    i^rumbling.    hkc    a    midnight 

funeral  train 
They    hurried    fast    away,    a    black    and    priestly 

retinue. 

Down  from  the  burying-ground,  down  from  the  hill, 
Thro'  the  lane  of  cypresses  I  dimly  seemed  to  see, 
Solemn  and  stately,  in  a  black  veil, 
Grandmother  Lucia,  coming  down  to  me. 

She,    the   Lady   Lucia,    with    waving   white   locks 

crowned ; 
And,  as  she  descends,  how  tenderly  she  croons 
In  the  gentle  Tuscan  accents,  that  so  insipid  sound 
From  the  facile  pens  of  Manzonian  buffoons. 

Tunefully  it  falls,  in  sad  and  tender  measure 
The  sweet  Versilian  accent  held  ever  in  my  heart, 
Like  the  sirrentcse,  made  for  love  and  pleasure, 
Forceful  and  strong,  yet  of  a  gentle  art. 

O.  granny,  grannv,  dearly  did  I  love  it 
When  I  was  a  baby !     Now  tell  the  story  over, 
Tell   me.   old   and  wise    (too  wise  to   feel  myself 

above  it) , 
The  story  of   the  lady  who  sought  her  vanished 

lover ! 

121 


"Seven  pairs  ot  shoes  my  wandering  feet  have  worn, 
Stvrn  pairs  ot  iron  >hoi-s,  searching  evermore: 
Seven  iron  walking-sticks  my  sinking  weight  have 

borne 
In  my  fated  wanderings  from  door  to  door: 

"Seven  crystal   fla>ks  I   have  tilled  with  tears, 
Yet  you  would  not  come  when  I  called,  nor  awake; 
Wctpin}^,  I  wandered  for  seven  long  years. 
And  the  (ock  crew,  but  the  spell  would  not  break." 

Still  how  lovely,  granny,  and  how  true  the  tale 
After  all  these  years!     (jlad  am  I   'tis  so, 
And  that  for  which  I've  sought  over  hill  and  vale 
So  many  years  in  vain,  perhaps  is  here  below, 

Underneath    these  cypresses,   and    I    must   leave   it 

there. 
For  though  I  fain  would  linger,  yet  it  may  not  be. 
Granny,  where  other  cypresses  perfume  the  silent 

air 
Beside  your  solitary  grave,  perhaps  it  waits  for  me. 

Panung  and  breathless  the  train  passes  by 

While  in  my  heart — Oh,  silcnth    and  ttMrles-^h  !  — 

I  weep. 
A  happy  herd  of  horses  is  startled  by  its  cry 
And,  neii^hing  and  scampering,  across  the  hills  they 

leap. 

But  an  old  grey  ass,  nibbling  at  a  thistle, 

A    blue    and    scarlet    thistle,    heeds   not   their   gay 

carouse, 
He  does  not  lift  an  ear  at  the  piercing  whistle, 
But  slowly  .".nd  seriously  he  turns  around  to  browse. 


LXXIII 

A  NIGHT  IN  MAY 

(Sestina) 

Ah,  nfver  morr  serine,  tlu-  tranquil  night 
Was  greeted  by  the  little  wandering  stars 
Upon  the  shore,  beside  the  lucent  waves; 
And  quivering  across  the  dewy  grass 
Dispersing  shadows,  stealing  down  the  hills 
Wandered  the  old,  old  solitary  moon. 

O  whitely  shining,  chaste  and  austere  moon, 
What  moist  and  tepid  vapors,  thro'  the  night, 
Arose  to  thee  from  these  envcsturcd  hills! 
And  sweetly  rivalling  the  virgin  stars 
The  drowsy  nymphs  awoke  upon  the  grass 
And  gentle  murmurs  echoed  on  the  waves. 

Such  voyage  of  oblivion,  on  the  waves 

Never  had  lovers  underneath  the  moon, 

As  I,  indifferent  upon  the  grass. 

It  seems  to  me  that  such  a  sparkling  night 

Shines  on  the  good  alone ;  from  tombs  and  stars 

Crept  friendly  spirits,  wandering  o'er  the  hills. 

0  you  who  sleep  embosomed  in  the  hills 
And  you  in  humbler  tombs  beside  the  waves 
Who  gaze  upon  the  passing  of  the  stars ; 
You,  underneath  the  poised  ray  of  the  moon, 

1  saw  once  more,  peopling  the  silent  night. 
And  softly  stealing  over  the  sentient  grass. 


'U 


U3 


''!'■. 


Those  years  when  I  was  tender,  hkc  the  grass, 
I  saw  once  more  atop  the  gleaming  hills, 
But,  at  the  toot,  they  Hed  into  the  night! 
And  then  I  saw,  advancing  on  the  waves, 
A  form,  weft  of  the  silver  of  the  moon, 
From  whose  soft  eyes  laughed  out  the  twmkling 
stars. 

It  spoke:     Remember!     All  at  once  the  star: 
Were  veiled,  a  shadow  ran  across  the  grass, 
And  darkness  fell  upon  the  shining  rnoon ; 
Shrill  lamentations  sounded  on  the  hills, 
And  I  alone,  beside  the  mournful  waves. 
Sat  shive.ing  in  the  cold  sepulchral  night. 

Ah,  when  the  night  is  crowded  full  of  stars, 
i  love,  beside  the  waves,  upon  the  grass. 
To  watch  upon  the  hills,  the  seated  moon. 


12  + 


reams ; 


LXXIV 
TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF   'MAGO" 

O  Severino,  the  nest  of  thy  sweet  song 

Well  know  I,  and  thy  secret  place-o -dreams; 

Hemp-rippled  plai..  that  hesitates  so  long 
'Twixt  Rhine  and  Po,  unfaithful  re  I    n.  st 

Down  where  the  sunken  heathgro  -n  pasture  lies 
The  royal  woodcock  lifts  its  lai     H.!;ht: 

Ore  begs  for  mercy  when  with  sliHln^  ones 
A  flock  of  hidden  water-fowl  takes  fright, 

Etching  their  shadows  on  the  quiet  pool 

Beneath  whose  stagnant  waters  dwells  the  eel. 

O  smoldering  fire  of  dreams  desireful! 

O  dusky  vast,  whence  drowsy  song  doth  steal! 

O  crimson  evening,  high  above  the  rivi  r 
Rulmg,  resplendent,  o'er  her  fair  demesne! 

Oh,  where  the  palpitating  moonbeams  quiver. 
How  tenderly  the  springtime  dons  its  green! 

While,  sad  and  love-lorn,  at  the  evening  star 
The  poplars  gaze  with  deep  enamored  sighs. 

And  through  the  hemp-fields,  echoing  afar, 
The  romanella  lingeringly  dies! 

And  then  when  August  comes,  O  Severino, 
And  frogs  call  to  the  water,  canorous, 

We  poets  linger  in  the  Alberino 

Whh  thoughts  of  love  or  gay  or  dolorous. 


128 


And  ask  of  thy  tall  poplars  (murmuring  still 
Hcneath  the  silent  stars)  with  burnmg  taith, 

"O  towering  poplars,  tell  us,  if  you  will,  ^ 

Where,     where     goes     wandering     Biancohore  8 
wraith  ? 

"Beside  a  stream?     Or  weaving  flowers  betimes 
Upon  thy  green  and  sunny  hills  above. 

Or.  happv  in  a  book  of  Petrarch's  rhymes, 
Perhaps  she  smiles  at  our  vain  human  love. 


136 


LXXV 
THE  TWO  TITANS 

PROM  ET  HE      ; 

The  vulture,  O  my  brother,  doth  tear  me  beak  and 
claw 

Yet  ever  with  unquenched  thirst: 
O  patient  brother  of  Mauretania, 

Jove  be  accurst! 

ATLAS 
Beneath  the  weight  of  ardent  gods  and  starry  skies 

My  shoulders  are  bent  from  above : 
O  my  Scythian  brother,  learned  and  wise, 

Accurst  be  Jove! 

PROMETHEUS 

Around  this  head,  where,  the  lord  of  all. 

Eternal  reason  rules. 
Around  this  breast  of  kindness  prodigal. 

Perpetual  winter  howls. 


1^' 


ATLAS 

Alas!  the  wanton  summer  sets  my  limbs  on  fire, 

I  burn:  this  granite  stone 
That  bears  me,  hark  how  it  tinkles  like  a  lyre 

As  it  splits  beneath  the  sun. 

PROMETHEUS 
How  sinned  T?     The  light,  of  ethereal  birth. 

On  man  its  smiles  doth  fling: 
Yet  he  made  him  sad,  and  bowed  to  the  earth 

The  stupid  Olvmpian  king. 


Pr 


i  I 


ATLAS 

Vile  tyrant,  for  ten  long  warring  years 

I  fought  him  face  to  face, 
Till  he  turned  to  a  beast,  overcome  by  his  tears. 

And  fled  in  a  headlong  race. 

PROMETHEUS 

But  I  know  the  day  of  his  death :  not  tho'  he  pray 
Shall  the  veil  of  the  fates  be  riven ! 

Since  with  his  thunderbolts  he  strikes  me  every  day, 
The  cruel  coward  of  Heaven. 

ATLAS 

Apples  grow  upon  me,  that  he  would  not  disdain, 

But  the  ever-watchful  eyes 
Of  the  fair  Hesperid<  euard  them,  and  he  plots  tor 
them  in  vain, 

This  glutton  of  the  skies. 

PROMETHEUS 

The  azure  ocean-nymphs,  in  mantles  trailing,  long. 

Arise  from  the  Scythian  sea, 
And  fling  themselves  upon  me,  with  sweetly  sighing 
song, 

And  wreathe  and  engarland  mc. 

ATLAS 

Dancing  they  come  to  me.  lovely,  amorous. 

My  daughters,  the  Pleiades. 
Fecund  wives  of  heroes,  all  illustrious 

Mortals  they  have  held  upon  their  knees. 


los 


PROMETHEUS 
lo    the  V.  'ine,  stops  in  her  wandering 

To  gaze  at  me  with  gentle  heiter  eyes: 
Ah,  the  lovely  vagabond !     Sweetly  do  1  sing 

Of  the  glory  that  after  her  flies. 

ATLAS 

Fair  Cyrcne  comes  to  me  in  the  perfumed  night, 
Her  black  hair  streaming  after. 

Thro'  her  glorious  tresses,  spread  for  my  delight. 
Sounds  silvery,  starry  laughter. 


As,  self-opposed,  the  current  flies. 

That  from  pole  to  pole  doth  move, 

Thus  with  one  voice  the  strong  and  wise 
Curse  thee,  O  Jove. 


I' 


129 


■  I 


LXXVI 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THEODORIC 

On  the  lord  and  on  his  vassal 

Beats  the  burning  sun  of  morn ; 
Somewhere,  near  Verona's  castle, 

Sounds  a  solitary  horn. 
Where  the  great  Adige  murmurs 

Flowing  by  green  banks,  sun-clad, 
Pensive  at  his  bath  now  lingers 

King  Theodoric,  old  and  sad. 

Thinking  of  a  day  far  distant 

When  he  first  beheld  Crimhild 
And  with  fighting  fierce,  persistent 

AH  her  banquet  hall  was  filled. 
Till  upon  her  head  descended 

The  great  sword  of  Hildebrand 
And,  the  wicked  burial  ended, 

He  returned  to  his  own  land. 

Now  he  sees  the  sunlight  dancing 

And  the  river  running  clear. 
And  a  falcon,  wheeling,  glancing 

Round  the  towers,  far  and  near; 
Sees  the  blue  and  distant  mountains. 

Whence  in  his  strong  youth  he  came, 
And  this  country  with  its  fountains 

That  h';  conquered  for  his  fame. 

Ended  now  his  meditation 
By  a  maiden's  cry,  unseen; 

"Sire,  no  one  in  all  the  nation 
Such  a  splendid  stag  has  seen. 
i:;o 


Stccl-enameled,  inlaid,  burnished 
Are  his  feet— his  horns  of  gold, 

The  aged  hunter's  bath  is  finished 
Ere  the  story  is  half  told. 

"Dogs  and  hunting-spear  now  bring  me, 

Bring  my  black,  horse!"  with  a  shout. 
"Bathing-sheet  for  mantle  fling  me," 

And  he  winds  it  round  about. 
Hurrying  groom  nor  scurrying  squire 

Sees  the  great  stag  disappear, 
Where  the  king  .cands,  all  on  hre, 

A  black  horse  nickers  in  his  ear. 

Black  it  was  as  any  raven, 

Eyes  like  coals  of  fire  a-glow. 
But  the  old  king  was  no  craven, 

Quick  he  leaped  the  saddle-bow. 
To  his  dogs  he  gave  the  "hallo," 

But  they  crouched  and  shook  with  fear, 
They  would  howl,  but  would  not  follow, 

They  would  see,  but  would  not  hear. 

Darting  like  a  swift,  sped  arrow. 

Sudden  the  black  horse  has  flown, 
Over  ways  steep-hung  and  narrow, 

Now  he's  up  and  now  he's  down, 
Far  away,  away,  away 

O'er  valley's  cup  and  mountam  shelt 
And  the  king  his  steed  would  stay. 

But  he  cannot  save  himself. 

After  him  has  closely  followed. 
Faithful  still,  an  ancient  groom. 

Now  his  anguished  cry  is  echoed 
Through  the  ever-decpenmg  gloom: 

131 


\i 


1.:, 


■l 


"O  noble  King  Tlieodoric, 

1  tuUowccI  >uu  in  your  young  days, 
i  followed  you  where  spears  were  thick,  ^_ 

But  never  through  such  winiling  ways!" 

"Gentle  king  of  the  Amali, 

Turn  thou  back,  O  sacred  crown! 
Where  dost  go  in  such  a  hurry  .■" 

To  thy  household  come  thou  down !" 
"1  am  on  a  wild,  unruly, 

Evil  beast,  whose  foot-prints  burn: 
Ask  the  Virgin  Mary,  truly 

She  may  say  when  I   return." 

To  the  blessed  Virgin  Mary 

Other  duties  are  entrusted: 
She  must  gather  up  the  martyrs 

In  her  great  veil,  star-encrusted. 
She  must  welcome  all  the  martyrs 

Who  for  faith  or  hearth  are  dead; 
And  God  descended,  terrible. 

On  King  Theodoric's  head. 

Above  the  rocks  and  cliffs  so  far 

The  black  horse  takes  its  flight. 
Now  leaping  toward  a  distant  star. 

Now  buried  in  the  night. 
Behold  the  looming  Apennines 

That  rise  as  shadows  flee, 
And  where  the  pallid  morning  shines 

The  murmuring  Tuscan  sea. 

Listen.  Vulcan's  blows  are  crashing 

Deep  within  Lipari's  fires, 
Where  with  buzying,  smoking,  flashing, 

It  consumes  in  its  desires. 
IK 


Now  behold!     Ihe  raven  courser 
High  against  the  heaven  springs 

Neighing;  and  his  royal  rider 
Far  into  the  crater  flings. 

But  from  out  that  hornet's  nest 

Who  ri!^es  o'er  the  mountain  now? 
'Tis  not  the  sun,  'tis  a  white  crest, 

'Tis  not  the  sun,  a  noble  brow, 
Blood-stained,  with  smile  victorious 

Of  splendid  martyrdom: 
Boethius,  holy,  glorious, 

The  senator  of  Rome. 


I 


•X 


lii 


LWVII 

THE  RUSTIC  COMMUNE 

Ah,  where  your  lonely  shadow  trembles  cold, 
Etched  on  a  field  of  emerald  and  gold 

By    morninK's   sun,    that    shines   thro'    pine   and 
beech ; 
Where,  motionless,  you  watch  the  dying  day 
Near  villages,  or  peer  at  those  whopray. 

Or  over  graves  your  dark  cool  ;•  "ence  reach, 

O,  walnut  trees  of  Carnia,  adieu! 

My  thoughts  go  wandering  in  the  leaves  of  you, 

And  dreaming,  rouse  the  shades  of  days  gone  by. 
Not  the  dread  dead,  nor  wicked  convocations 
Of  stupid  devils,  nor  witches  lucubrations. 

But  rustic  virtue  in  community 

I  see  encamped  in  some  wide  shady  space 
In  pasture-season,  for  a  meeting  place 

After  the  mass  upon  a  holiday. 
The  consul  says   first  laying  both  his  hands 
Upon  our  Christian  symbols:    "See,  these  lands, 

These  forests,  all  are  yours,  if  \ou  obey. 

"You  may  divide  these  mighty  pines  and  firs 
As  far  as  eve  can  travel;  t'^ey  are  yours; 

Your  flocks  and  herds  may  graze  these  mountams 
high. 
And  you,  mv  sons,  if  Hun  or  Slav  invade, 
Seizing  the  sword  and  spear,    nust  drop  the^^spadc. 

And  give  your  lives  for  land  and  liberty." 


134 


I'ridc  ilirilU  and  trfml)lf>  tlien  in  each  man's  brra-t. 
Blond  heads  are  lifted;  on  each  golden  crest 

Of  these  elect,  the  sun  makes  shmmg  wounds. 
Not  so  the  women;  weeping  beneath  their  veils 
The  Holy  Mother's  ear  their  prayer  assails. 

The  consul  with  raised  hand  once  more  -xpounds: 

"This,  in  Christ's  name  and  Mary's,  I  decree, 
And  as  I  will,  O  people,  let  it  be.  " 

With  lifted  hands  the  people  cry   'Amen. 
And  the  red  heifers  gaze  across  the  grass 
And  duUv  watch  the  little  Senate  pass. 

While  mid-day  shines  upon  the  pines  again. 


t^. 


if; 


las 


LXXVIII 

ON  THE  FIELDS  OF  MARENGO 

Easter  Si^ht,   itJS 

The  moon  beats  on  Marengo's  plain:  far-spread  and 

white  It   lies 
'Twixt   Bormida   and   Tanaro  a   forest  sways  and 

si^hs; 
A   forest  of   halberds,   men  and  horse,   all  flying, 

flyinj;  fast. 
From   Alexandria's  ramparts,   unconqucred   to  the 

last. 

And    Alexandria's    high-set    fires,    far    down    the 

Apennines 
Illume  the  flight  of  Civsar— called,  of  the  Ghibcl- 

lines: 
The  fires  of    tlie   Lombard    League   from  Tortona 

respond 
And    thro'    the    quiet    evening,    victorious    songs 

resound. 

"The   Swabian   lion   lies  hard-pressed  between  the 

Latin--'  stet'l ; 
This  t^lorunis  victory,  O  fires,  to  hills  and  plains 

reveal. 
Tomorrow  Christ  is  risen,  and  soon  the  Easter  sun 
Shall  shine  vipon  new  glories  by  the  Roman  people 

won. 

The  white-haired  Hohenzollern  hears  that  victori- 
ous cry 

And  ponders,  head  bowed  on  his  sword,  "Ah,  it  is 
hard  to  die 

1H6 


By  the  hands  of  men  who  yesterday  were  sorry 
merchant-wights,  .    •      u 

Nor  dared  round  their  lU-fcd  stomachs  to  belt  ^^'e 
swords  of  knights!" 

And  Speycr's  bishop  (he  for  whom  a  hundred  val- 
leys pour  .       ,     1 
The  red  wine  troin  their  ca^ks,  ot  a  hundred  canons 

creditor) 
Moans  thus:    "O  fair  cathedral  towers,  passed  ever 

from  mv  sight, 
Who  in  my  place  will  sing  the  mass  for  you  on 

Christmas  night?" 

Count   Ditpold  of  the   Palatine,   whose  streaming 

golden  hair 
Falls  on  his  slender,  rosy  neck,  and  nestles  curling 

there, 
Thinks,  "In  the  dark  the  fairies  go  chanting  their 

ancient  rune, 
Above  the  Rhine,  and  Thekla  is  sleeping  beneath 

the  moon." 

My  Lord  Archbishop  of  Mayencc  says,  "Not  for 
such  a  coil  ,    ,      r  .    i        i 

Brought  I.  beside  mv  iron  staff,  the  flask  of  holv  oil 

To  give  to  all.  Ah.  if  my  mules  were  only  on 
their  wav 

Across  the  Alps,  with  Italy's  treasure  laden,  ere 
this  day!" 

And  Tyrol's  count.  "My  son,  tomorrow  from  the 

Alps  shall  greet  thee 
The  risen  sun;  my  faithful  dog,  joyous,  shall  run 

to  meet  thee. 


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Both  nou   ire  thine;  for  I,  a  stag  surprised  by  rustic 

hours, 
Fallen  shall  lie,  with  slitten  throat,  on  these  grey 

Lombard  moors." 

On   foot,   beside   his  courser,    the   Emperor  stood 

alone: 
The  field  stretched  far  on  every  side,  the  stars  in 

heaven  shone 
And   sped   above  his  silvered   head  while  still  he 

gazed;  behind 
The  black  Imperial  banner  was  chattering  with  the 

wind. 

Bohemia's  royal  sceptre,  and  Poland's  royal  sword, 
The  Empire's  decorations,  await  the  royal  word: 
And  when  the  stars  were  weary,  and  rosy  shone  the 

dawn 
Above  the  distant  mountains.  Great  Caesar  ordered, 

"Op! 

"To  horse,  to  horse,  ye  faithful!     Thou,  Wittels- 

bach,  fling  out 
Before   the  League  our  sacred   flag,   and  let  our 

herald  shout 
Into  their  teeth  that  soon  on  his  victorious  way 

shall  come 
Trajan's  successor,   Julius'   heir,    the   Emperor  of 

Rome!" 

Alas,  alas,  how  quick  and  clear  the  German  trumpet- 
blast 

'Twixt  Tanaro  and  river  Po  is  echoing  at  last ; 

Italian  flags,  Italian  souls  bowed  to  the  dust  that 
day 

Before  the  German  eagle,  and  Caesar  went  his  way! 

138 


LXXIX 


COMMUNAL  FEUD 

To  Cuosa  in  the  Serchian  valley 

Pisa  sends  Ambassadors. 
From  the  commune  of  Saint  Zita 

Here  attend  the  great  signers. 

First  behold  Bonturo  Dati, 

He's  the  prince  of  all  the  cheats; 

Here  is  Cino,  here  is  Pecchio, 

They  who  clean  the  muddy  streets. 

Here  are  Feccia  and  Fruglia — 

Pike-mouthed,  so  they  call  the  fellows- 
Would  you  buy  a  hat  or  mantle? 

Get  it  at  the  merchant  Nello's, 

He's  the  best  of  all  the  rabble. 

See  them  all  in  fine  new  gear, 
Swords  and  bludgeons,  silks  that  rustic — 

All  the  country-side  can  hear. 

Silks  that  rustle,  rustle,  ca'ling 
To  the  people,  "Come,  and  hearken. 

And  they  chatter  all  together. 

With  contempt  their  bent  brows  darken. 

But  Banduccio  of  Buonconte, 

Bent  with  weight  of  years  and  glory, 

(Five  times  wounded,  sword  and  bludgeon. 
As  is  told  in  Pisa's  story), 


ft 


139 


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As  the  old  and  great  should  do, 
He  stands  first,  the  Pisan's  chief; 

First  he  bows,  to  do  them  honor, 
Then  he  speaks,  diri   t  and  brief: 

"We  are  conquerors,  yes,  but  weary 
Of  our  strife,  and  Christians,  too. 

So  you  see  us  here,  O  Luccans, 
Come  to  sign  a  peace  with  you. 

"Asciano,  and  Avane, 

Buti — these  you  promised,  give: 
We  can  be  at  peace,  O  brothers. 

If  we  live  and  let  to  live." 

Now  Bonturo  edges  forward 
I'rom  among  tlie  Luccan  lords. 

Takes  three  steps  and  clears  his  throat, 
Then  he  speaks  these  high-flown  words; 

"Lovely  is  Avane's  castle, 

Here  the  king  once  held  his  court. 
Through  the  forest  oaks  at  midnight 

Ring  the  echoes  of  his  sport. 

"Here  at  midnight  sound  the  echoes 

Of  the  Royal  himting  blast, 
And  behind  a  black  hare,  fleeing, 

Neighs  a  black  horse,  following  fast. 

"For  the  Longobard  Astolfo 
Had  a  quarrel  with  his  abbot, 

Sighinulf,  upon  this  subject ; 

Which  of  them  had  killed  this  rabbit. 


140 


"And  the  king  waxed  very  angry 
At  his  holy  man's  insistence, 

So  he  took  his  royal  hammer 

And  broke  his  jaw — without  resiscanc; 


"These  are  great  and  glorious  memories 

Of  our  Luccan  marquisate, 
Yet  Avane  and  its  forests 

We  will  give — set  you  the  date. 

"Buti  is  an  ugly  village, 

Naked  rocks  rise  grey  and  harsh 
Above;  below  the  Magno  thunders 

From  Bientina  to  the  Marsh. 

"But  above  the  cliffs  lie  smiling 

Decked  with  fair  fertility; 
But  above,  how  fair  in  April 

Gleams  the  teeming  olive-tree! 

"While  the  men  shake  laden  branches, 
Little  maids  weave  flowery  chains, 

And  with  songs  the  hillside  echoes, 
And  with  songs  resound  the  plains. 

"Pregnant,  teeming  with  abundance, 
Olive-presses  creak  and  spew; 

Yet,  O  Pisans,  this  rich  Buti 
We,  the  Luccans,  cede  to  you. 

"Not  Asciano!     When  we  Luccans 
Conquered  you  and  made  it  ours 

We  walled  in  four  looking-glasses 
High  upon  the  castle- towers, 


141 


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"That  when  you  a-flirting  go 

And  leave  behind  your  lovely  lasses, 

They  may  still  admire  themselves 
In  the  Luccan  looking-glasses!" 

Loud  and  long  then  laughed  the  Luccans, 
Not  a  man  the  joke  has  missed ; 

Every  man  among  the  Pisans 
Doubles  up  his  hidden  fist. 

But  Banduccio  of  Buonconte 
Looks  upon  the  Pisan  proudly ; 

Stifling  his  fast-rising  anger, 

Thus  he  speaks — and  not  too  loudly — 

Stretching  both  his  hands  in  warning, 
"Since  you  speak  of  looking-glasses, 

In  eight  days  you'll  see  what  mirrors 
We  can  give  our  Pisan  lasses." 

Seven  days — the  bridge  to  Pisa 
Lies  between  the  twilit  trees. 

On  its  end  a  burning  candle — 

Twelve-pence  one  must  pay  for  these. 

In  its  faint  and  trembling  flicker, 
As  it  burns,  now  low,  now  higher, 

With  the  banners  of  the  Commune 
Horseback,  stands  the  public  crier. 

Blowing  loud  upon  his  trumpet, 

"Hail,"  he  cries,  "thro"  life  and  death 

Hail  to  Pisa!"  then  repeats  it, 
Pausing  only  to  take  breath. 


14' 


"All  ye  our  border  marquises, 

Maremman  counts  with  savage  ways, 

All  ye  who  come  from  Corsica, 
Who  were  viscounts  in  other  days, 

"Ye  dwellers  in  the  palaces. 

Ye  merchants  and  good  artisans. 
Ye  who  have  been  Sardinian  kings 

And  are  in  Pisa — citizens — 


"Ye  who  before  the  western  wind, 
Take  in  or  raise  your  flapping  sail 

Ere  the  Verruca  flush  with  dawn, 
Before  this  candle  fail. 

"Out  of  the  gate  of  Parlascio, 
Up!     Out!  forget  your  fears! 

Arouse  ye,  Pisan  people, 
Goodmen  ^-id  cavaliers! 

"Out  of  the  gate  of  Parlascio, 
Seize  lance  and  sword  who  can — 

Hugo,  Big  Hugo  of  Faggiola, 
He  leads,  and  he's  a  man! 

"His  ample  chest  is  ironclad, 

His  head  is  bared  beneath  the  sun. 

He  sits  astride  his  great  white  horse 
And  clasps  his  shield,  so  ;L;;ri'at 


il     <)!l!^ 


"That  it  can  check  four  halberdiers 
At  once — and  this  being  true,  why  then 

It  can  resist  the  Luccan  darts, 
Altho'  they  strike  it  ten  by  ten!" 


I 


143 


I-  i 


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So  called  the  crier,  and  instantly 

The  people  seize  their  arms  and  run. 

The  rushing,  fiery,  cavalcade 

Goes  westward  with  the  November  sun. 

It  goes  across  grey  stubble-fields 
AH  silvered  by  the  early  frost 

Beneath  the  languid  olive-trees 

And  over  vines,  despoiled  and  tossed. 

The  wine  smells  strong  thro'  village  streets. 
Even  now  the  harvest  is  mature. 

Alas!     This  year  St.  Martin  sends 
An  evil  vintage,  to  be  sure! 

O  Luccans,  Luccans,  can  it  be 

St.  Martin  fights  for  you  no  more? 

Oxen,  carts,  and  flying  peasants — 
The  Pisan  drives  them  all  before; 

Runs  across  the  wretched  country 

Beating,  killing  nithU-ssh  ; 
And  before  his  murderous  fury 

How  the  Luccan  people  flee! 

Then  at  San  Friano  gathers 

That  ferocious  cavalcade. 
And  within  her  city  towers 

Shuddering  Lucca  is  afraid. 

From  outside  the  walls  the  Pisan 
Flings  his  burning  brand  and  dart. 

"Pick  it  up,  my  little  panther. 
Here's  a  daint>'  bit,  sweetheart." 


144 


"See  the  mirrors,  lovely  Lucca, 

Pisa  to  your  women  sends." 
And  they  raise  above  the  gateway 

Two  long  poles  from  whose  high  ends 

Two  great  mirrors,  long  and  wide 
As  a  tun's  bottom,  hang  suspended: 

Below  the  Pisans  crack  their  jokes 
And  dance  because  the  fight  is  ended. 

But  evil  Tigrin  of  Sassetta, 
Wicked  heart  and  wicked  face, 

Caught  a  Luccan  by  the  hair 

And  stopped  him  in  his  headlong  race, 

Then  he  thrust  his  cruel  sword 
Once  and  twice  into  his  vitals, 

Smeared  his  finger  with  the  blood 
And  thus  he  wrote  upon  the  portals: 

"Bonturo  Dati,  whose  advice 

The  Luccans  took  at  our  last  meeting. 
From  the  gate  of  San  Friano, 

We,  the  Pisans,  send  you  greeting." 


,!-'! 


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-If. 


1.1 

If  '■ 


LXXX 

THE  LULLABY  OF  CHARLES  V 

Alone  in  Brussels,  in  a  lonely  house, 
Sits  Margaret  of  Austria,  widowed  spouse 
Of  three  young  husbands ;  hurriedly  she  sews 
Upon  a  soft  white  shirt,  incessantly. 

Close  by  her  side  her  cradled  nephew  wakes. 
And  with  a  slender  hound  his  pleasure  takes; 
His  fallen  lower  lip,  and  jaws  like  brakes, 
Betray  his  lineal  infirmity. 

Dimmed  ^     a  misty  and  malignant  veil 
Around  hi    bed  three  circling  furies  wail, 
And  weave  into  a  song  the  evil  tale 
Of  thrice  a  hundred  years'  heredity. 

"Hail  to  thee,  hail!     Child  of  the  hound-like  face! 
Hail,  son  of  Joan,  and  madness  and  disgrace! 
Hail,  offspring  of  an  intermingled  race 
Whose  beauties  blight  all  Christianity! 

"The  discord  of  three  tainted  streams  of  blood. 
Of  wicked  thoughts  in  eflFervescing  flood. 
Of  vile  impulse  that  cannot  be  subdued 
Risen  in  thy  brain,  ferment  to  infamy." 

Then  one:     "Burgimdian  fun'  I;  insane, 
I  envy  all  the  world,  and  naught  attain. 
I  drew  the  fearless  one  to  conflict  vain 
And  shameful  in  the  heart  of  untamed  Uri. 


146 


"Frozen  to  the  ground,  his  body  violate, 

Beside  an  unknown  stream  they  found  him  late: 

And  this  the  symbol,  augury  and  fate. 

Thy  reign  shall  follow  over  land  and  sea." 

"See,  I  am  Vertigo,"  another  says, 
"Who  tempted  Max  along  the  winding  ways 
Of  Tyrol's  Alps:  he  followed  all  his  days, 
And  following,  forgot  his  beggary. 

"Halloo,  halloo,  ye  of  the  Hapsburg  line! 
With  ye  I  clamber  to  a  chase  divine; 
Then,  bathing  in  the  people's  blood,  and  thine, 
Remove  the  traces  of  such  industry." 

"And  I  am  madness,"  hear  the  third  fate  speak. 
"Lover  of  death,  to  make  exchange  I  seek; 
The  bride-bed  for  the  coffin,  cold  and  bleak. 
And  in  the  tomb  find  love's  felicity. 

"Dost  thou  not  hear  Joanna  still  complain  ? 
At  Yust  I  wait  for  thee.     In  sunny  Spain 
It  pleases  me  that  thy  race  shall  remain 
To  build  the  Escurial  monstrosity." 

And  then  all  three:     "In  thy  Brabantian  heart 
Sane  mid-day  and  strong  north  strive  for  their  part 
With  turbid  impulses  that  vainly  start. 
Then,  bruised,  sink  to  insensibility. 

"O,  first  of  emperors  by  heredity 
In  whom  all  Europe  shall  concentred  be 
Upon  an  age  that's  dying,  yet  still  free, 
'Tis  thine  to  throw  the  net  of  dynasty. 


147 


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"On  a  new  age,  born  free  and  fearing  naught, 
Whose  swaddling  bands  great  Luther  disenwrought, 
And  boldly  fed  upon  the  marrow  of  thought, 
'Tis  thine  to  throw  the  net  of  casuistry. 

"And  thou,  O  eager  seamstress,  bold  Margot, 
Beneath  whose  hand  th'  unerring  stitches  flow, 
Is  the  shirt  of  Nessus  finished?     Then,  presto! 
We'll  hoodwink  Europe  with  our  foolery." 


IM 


.■r 


TO  \ICT()R  HUGO 
LXXXI 

(February  27,   1881) 

h    wanders   clown    the   mountains    with    morning 

smiles  a-gleam, 
The    epic    verse    of    Homer,    a    glorious    god-like 

stream. 
With  swans   upon   its   breast,    it   seeks   the   green 

Asiatic  plain. 
The  tragedies  of  Aeschylus,  harsh  with  horror,  rise 
And,  smoking.  Hashing,  thundering  they  shake  the 

fateful  skies, — 
Volcanic   fires    that   pelt    the   midnight   seas   with 

golden  rain. 

The  Olympic  ode  of  Pindar,  an  eagle  triumphant 

soars. 
On    far-spread    placid   pinions,    that   droop   like   a 

galley's  oars 
In  noon-tide  glory  shining  on  the  forums  and  the 

town. 
O  Victor,  in  my  study,  among  these  books  of  song, 
Doth    rest    thy    noble    effigy,    silver-crowned    and 

strong ; 
On  thy  right  hand  doth  rest  thy  proohet-head,  by 

woe  bowed  down. 


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149 


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Dost   think  of   sons  or   country?     Dost   think   of 

human  sorrow  ? 
I  know  not,  yet  from  thy  hid  grief  tranquillity  I 
borrow 

For  heart  and  aching  eyes. 
And  old  wounds  hurt  no  more,  while  today's  is  an 

unsped  arrow, 
And  I  remember  only  yesterday  and  tomorrow 

And  that  which  never  dies. 
From  a  grave  long  bereft  of  grief,  upon  the  Appian 

Way. 
For  a  sign  of  my  joy  in  thee,  I  pluckt  a  laurel  spray 

To  deck  thy  brow,  conqueror-wise. 
Ah,  poet,  thou  hast  triumphed  over  brute  force  and 

fate; 
Ah,    poet,    beneath    thy    shining    feet    the    Empire 
inchoate 

Of  a  crusi;?d  emperor  lies! 

Who  sliall  compute  thy  years,  or  number  thy  days 

on  a  scroll  ? 
Thou  who  of  Gaul  and  of  France  didst  nourish  the 

infinite  soul 
Hid    in    thine    innermost    heart    till    the    centuries 

winged  it  for  flight. 
In  thee  is  the  roar  of  the  storm  that  whirls  over 

Brittany's  dune. 
And  the  dreams  of  Normandy's  plains  in  the  light 

of  the  moon 
And  the  Pyrenees  bristling  granite,  hot  in  the  fierce 

sun-light. 


180 


In  thee  is  the  glorious  health  of  Burgundian  harvest- 

Heids, 
Provencal  genius,  whose  harmony  a  Grecian  echo 

yields, 
And  that  strange  fire  that  may  not  bum  beyond  the 

Mame  and  Seine. 
Thou  didst  behold  the  chariots  that  around  great 

11  ion  sped, 
Didst  hear  the  horn   in   Roncevale,   when   Roland 

trumpeted. 
And  Godfrey  and   Bayard  and  Marceau  of  speech 

with  thee  were  fain. 

Thy  fateful  work  as  firm  as  a  Druid  oak  doth  tower. 
And  white-clad  muses  sever  with  golden  scythes  the 
flower 

Of  the  mistletoe  high  above. 
Among  its  shimmering  leaves  are  arms  that  a  god 

must  wield 
And  the  harps  of  the  bards — and  yet,  hid  in  an 
empty  shield 

A  nightingale  sings  of  love. 
And  maidens  dance  in  the  shadow,  while  the  sweet 

May  morning  sighs 
And  little  brown  urchins  gaze  with  glorious  azure 
eyes 

Between  their  locks  of  gold. 
Then  the  fiery  mountain-top  is  lost  in  the  evening 

mist, 
And  God  is  in  the  whirlwind,  and  where  the  light- 
nings twist. 

Revengeful  as  of  old. 


Ill 


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Above  thy  head,  O  poet,  I  have  hung  the  tri-color 

Sent  to  me  by  our  people  upon  the  Istrian  shore 

By  the  waters  of  Salvore,  Trieste,  ever  faithful  to 
Rome. 

"What  name  shall  I  inscribe,  and  what  glory-flam- 
ing year 

On  my  eternal  shield?"     Ah,  poet,  dost  thou  hear? 

The  Brescian  victory  asks  thee  from  the  opposite 
wall  of  my  home. 

Ah,  glories  pass  like  graveyard  flames,  faint-flash- 
ing, whimsical; 

Like  worn-out  scenery  crashing,  kingdoms  and  em- 
pires fall: 

An  archangel  serene,  thy  verse  inspires  and  passes  by. 

Sing  once  again  for  posterity,  O  ancient  and  divine, 

Smg  the  songs  of  the  people,  for  folk  of  the  Latin 
line; 

Sing  to  a  waiting  world  of  Justice  and  Liberty. 


lis 


CA  IRA 
LXXXII 

Upon  Burgundian  hills  a  blithe  sun  gleams ; 

In  valley  Marne  the  grapes  are  harvesting; 
Refreshed,  the  soil  of  Picardy  now  seems 

To  wait  the  plough,  fertility  to  bring. 

But,  like  an  axe  from  which  the  red  blood  streams, 
The   small   scythe   cuts   the   grapes   with    angry 
swing. 

By  his  neglected  fields  the  ploughman  dreams 
With  wandering  eye,  in  the  red  evening. 

Above  the  lowing  oxen,  like  a  lance 

He  brandishes  the  goad,  then  with  a  cry 
The  plough-handle  he  seizes:  Forward,  France! 

The  plough  creaks  in  the  furrow,  harsh  and  dry; 
Earth  smokes:  the  air  is  darkened  near  and  far 
By  mounting  phantasms  that  seek  for  war. 


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Ill 


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LXXXIII 

Azure,  vermilion,  white:  Knights  brave  and  leal 
Are  these  the  armed  sons  of  a  wearving  earth, 
Their  country's  common   soil   brought   them   to 
birth ; 

They  climb  the  snow-clad  peaks  of  the  ideal. 

Kleber,  whose  eyes  the  shaggy  brows  conceal, 

A  roarinj:  lion  in  the  foremost  line; 
Sublime  thro'  peril,  Hoche,  thou  didst  shine 
A  hghtnmg  flash,  a  flame  faint  hearts  to  steel. 

Desaix,  who  duty  chose  himself,  and  gave 
Others  the  glory  ;  and  that  stormy  wave 
Rlurat,  who,  rising,  broke  upon  a  crown. 

Marceau,  who  seven  and  twenty  years  of  life 
Gave,  single-hearted,  and  in  death  lay  down 
As  in  the  arms  of  a  sweet-smiling  wife. 


154 


P 


Ill 


LXXXIV 

By  the  royal  Tuileries  of  Katharine 

Y^"^  Lou's  kneels,  cajoled  by  priestly  wiles ; 

And   where   the   queen   gives  secrets,    tears   and 
smiles 
To  Breton  lords,  not  counting  it  a  sin ; 

Above  the  mist,  warm,  sultry,  vespertine 

With   spindle  twisting,  turning,  now  appears 
A  spectral  shape — unsmiling,  without  tears 

Whose  distaff  seems  the  distant  stars  to  win. 

And  spins  and  spins  and  spins.  From  night  to  morn 
Beneath  the  stars,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  face 
The  ancient  beldame  spins,  and  wearies  never. 

For  Brunswick  comes ;  before  his  troops  is  borne 
The  gallows;  and  to  hang  this  rebel  race 
—These    French— there    must    be    rope    to    last 
forever ! 


I: 


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LXXXV 

The  sky,  it  jcems,  rains  messengers  of  ill. 

In  shameful  quick  surrender  Longwy  falls. 

And  huddled  close  within  the  Assembly's  halls 
The  dusty  fugitives  await  its  will. 

"Sparse-scattered  were  we  on  the  ramparts,  till 
For  each  two  guns  we'd  scarce  one  cannoneer; 
Lavergne,  the  craven  coward,  had   fled  in  fear: 

Could  we  do  more  our  duty  to  fulfill?" 

The  Assembly,  seated,  answcied  "You  could  die." 
Then  with  strange  tears  for  that  most  piteous 

sight, 
Their  grey,  scorched  faces,  they  departed,  sigh- 
ing. 

The  hour  of  peril  passes  o'er  the  sky. 

Beats  with  its  wing  the  bells  in  its  swift  flight. 
And  "help,  O  France,  neiit,  help!"  there  comes 
a  crying. 


156 


LXXXVI 

Hear,  citizens,  O  hear!  Verdun  the  false 
Wide  open  to  the  foe  her  portal  flings: 

With  Uhlans  her  unworthy  women  waltz 
Anc^      urt  Artois,  and  flatter  foreign  kings. 

Carousing,  toasting,  while  the  army  halts. 

Light  wines  and  fragrant  flowers  the  city  brings. 
Of  vile  cake-makers  these  the  viler  faults, 

And  after  shame  it  is  not  death  that  stings! 

But  Beaurepaire  rejects  dishonored  life 
And  flings  the  final  challenge  of  his  soul 
Before  us,  and  the  fates,  and  future  years. 

There  gather  ancient  heroes  of  the  strife 
And  some  as  yet  unborn  to  this  their  goal, 
And  "help,  O  France!"     Their  cr>-  the  silence 
sears. 


1 


157 


tinl 


V3a>^g^»^.if^-" 


'/ 


LXXXVII 

Before  the  Hotel  de  Ville  the  black  flag  flies, 
And    "Back!"    it   cries   to    love,    and    the   sun's 

glory. 
Rumbling,  from  time  to  time  admonitory 

The  roll  of  cannon  on  the  silence  dies. 

Like  ancient  statues,  grouped  in  such  a  wise, 
The  people  seem:  and  as  the  hours  race  by 
News-chased  "That  France  mav  live,  today  we 
le, 

This  their  one  thought,  their  willing  sacrifice. 

In  line  before  Danton,  enormous,  pale, 
File  female  furies,  urging  sons  half-clad, 
Unarmed,  save  for  the  weapon  of  their  wrath. 

Marat,  the  madman,  sees  as  through  a  veil 

Dark  throngs  of  men  with  upraised  daggers,  mad 
For  blood — and  quick  it  follows  on  their  path. 


in 


-JH^/'i  ¥t!'^':i  '^\,hM^^i^-L¥-^il^^:. 


■  --^iwi'^^V 


LXXXVIII 

Druidic,  grim,  a  fearful  apparition 
Torments  the  ghosts  of  those  who  sleep  below 
w"rMj  ^J"e"°"'''  papal   towers,   with   passion 
Wild  whirlwmd  gusts  of  brutal  fury  blow. 

O  Albigenses,  following  your  vision ! 

O  Huguenots,  whose  noble  wrath  was  slow ! 
Your  blood  inflames  these  hearts  to  their  perdition, 

I-ermentmg,  boiling,  till  they  overflow. 

O  monstrous  court!     O  pain  and  sorrow!  look! 
The  coming  years   are   stained   with   their   foul 

shade. 
And  can  it  be  that  thou  art  France,  white  lass. 

Who,  saving,  expiating,  with  hand  unshook 
Above  thy  trembling  father,  unafraid. 
Dost  drink  thy  people's  blood,  from  a  full  glass? 


I 


ii  1 


150 


iii 


,v. 


'( 


h    ' 


LXXXIX 

The  rivers  ripple,  and  the  soft  wind  blows 

And  murmurs  to  the  mountain  whence  it  came. 
Here  crash  of  steel,  and  fury  all  a-flame: 

The  Lamballc  princess  to  the  Abbey  goes. 

The  waving  golden  hair  around  her  flows 
Upon  the  road  where  her  bare  body  lies: 
A  vile  perruquier  extends,  espies 

The  soft  limbs  which  his  bloody  hands  disclose. 

How  tender  and  how  white  she  is — how  fine! 
Her  neck  a  slim  white  lily,  and  between 
Lilies,  the  red  rose  of  her  mouth's  adorning. 

Up,  lovely  eyes,  the  color  of  sea-shine. 

Up,  little  curls,  to  the  Temple !     To  the  Queen ! 
From  Death  we'll  take  to  her  a  fair  good-morn- 
ing. 


160 


:rj%.---  :-i>^  tr. 


XC 

Ah,  never  king  of  France  at  his  levee 

Had  such  a  greeting  to  disperse  his  dreams! 
1  he  gloomy  tower  in  the  tumult  seems 

Like  some  fell  night-bird  startled  at  mid-day. 

Here  in  the  old  days  fell  to  strip  and  flay 
The  impious  arm  of  Philip,  once  "Le  Bel." 
And  here  today  belated  judgment  fell 

From  the  last  Templar  on  the  last  Capet. 

Upon  a  lifted  spear,  now  waving  high 
A  proud  head  nods,  and  at  the  window  beats: 
Behold!  behold!    Shrieks  that  foul  retinue. 

The  king  looks  down  on  them  as  they  pass  by 
In    howling    mobs,    and    pardon    from    Heaven 

entreats 
For  that  dread  night  of  St.  Bartholomew. 


k 


w 


f 


161 


'« 


XCI 

War-horses  stamp  above  his  sleeping  head; 

Have  they  awakened  Bayard  in  his  grave? 

Docs  Joan  the  Maid  her  virgin  standard  wave 
Above  the  Orleans  vales  to  rouse  her  dead? 

From  upper  Saone,  from  windy  Gard  besped 
Who  come,  with  song,  the  Argonne  pass  to  seize 
— So  ill-entrenched  with  cross-barred  trunks  of 
trees — 

Are  they  red  Gauls,  by  Vercingetorix  led? 

No:  Conde's  genius  wakens  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  was  Dumouriez,  the  spy. 
And  with  one  burning  flash  of  his  quick  eye 

He  points  upon  the  military  chart 

To  a  range  of  hills,  and  cries  "Let  them  advance! 
Behold  the  new  Thermopylae  of  France!" 


ins 


XCII 

Above  the  Argonne,  in  mists  oi  falling  rain 
A  listless  morning  rises  o'er  the  hill. 
The  limp  tri-color,  wet  above  the  mill 

Of  Valmy,  calls  to  sun  and  wind  in  vain. 

Stay,  miller,  stay:  today  instead  of  grain 
Fate  grinds  the  issue  for  the  coming  years. 
The  ragged  army  turns  with  blood  and  tears 

The  wheel — and  ever  shall  it  brar  the  stain. 

The  epic  columns  of  the  sans-culottes 

Close  in,  as  Kellermann  waves  high  his  sword, 
"Long  live  our  country,"  loud  the  cry  they  raise. 

Above  the  forest,  between  cannon  shots 
Archangel  of  the  ^oming  age,  is  heard 
The  all-inspiring,  goading  Marseillaise. 


h' 


■U 


1,:i 


les 


i 


I 


'/ 


XCIII 

Now  march,  O  ye  illustrious  sons  of  France 
With  mingled  song  and  cannon  thunderings. 
The  day  of  glor>'  spreads  vermilion  wings 

And  bright  they  shine  today  at  Valor's  dance. 

Encumbered  with  confusion  and  mischance 

The  King  of  Prussia  finds  each  homeward  mile, 
And  cholera,  cold,  and  hunger, — exiles  vile — 

Are  waiting  for  the  fleeing  emigrants. 

Red-glowing,  livid,  on  the  marshy  fen 

The  sunset  flashes,  and  with  transient  glory 
The  sun's  last  tender  smiles  the  hills  imbue. 

And  from  a  little  group  of  unknown  men 

G)mes  Wolfgang  Goethe,  saying  "The  world's 

story 
At  this  place,  and  today,  begins  anew." 


164 


cv 

FAREWELL 

The  poet,  vulgar  fool,  no  more 
From  door  to  door 

Begs,  nor  beside  the  rich  man's  table  lingers, 
Nor  his  shameful  fooling  scatters 
Carrying  platters, 

Nor  steals  the  bread  he  carries  with  nimble  fingtn. 

No  more  is  he  a  vagabond 
Who  goes  around 

With  hrtid  in  every  comer. 
Who  with  nose  ever  in  the  air 
Doth  vaguely  stare 

At  flying  birds  and  angels — is  aught  forlomer? 

Neither  is  he  a  gardener 
Mixing  manure 

And  dreaming  where  the  shade  it; 
Cauliflowers  who  affords 
For  the  lords 

And  violets  for  the  ladies  I 

The  poet  is  an  artisan, 
He  is  a  man, 

His  trade  makes  nerves  of  iron. 
He  has  a  proud  head  and  a  sturdy  neck. 
His  arm  can  wreck, 

His  eye  is  gay,  his  chest  is  like  a  lion. 


(( 


I 


I  ' 


i«s 


If 


M 


m 


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'I 


Scarce  has  the  morning  bird 
Made  its  voice  heard, 

Scarce  smiles  the  radiant  sun, 
Ere  he  his  dormant  forge  has  fired 
With  flame  inspired 

And  the  day's  festival  of  work  begun. 

How  the  fire  doth  flash  and  dance, 
Sparkle  and  glance, 

Blushing  at  its  audacity. 
Then  hisses  like  a  thousand  snakes 
And  roaring  breaks. 

While  from  the  burning  coals  the  red  sparks  fly. 

What  will  he  forge  now  that  the  flame  is  high  ? 
God  knows,  not  I, 

And  smiles  upon  the  workman  from  above. 
Who  in  this  glowing,  ardent  flame, 
Whence  first  they  came. 

Flings  primal  thought  and  love. 

And  dreams,  and  many  memories  of  glory 
Oft  told  in  story 

Of  people  that  live  and  pass. 
While  years  that  come  and  years  that  go 
Fluid  flow 

In  the  incandescent  mass. 

He  seizes  it,  then  with  his  sledge 
He  breaks  the  wedge 

Upon  his  anvil  with  a  mighty  blow. 
Singing  he  strikes  and  soon  the  sun  is  high: 
How  gloriously 

It  shines  on  his  rude  work  and  sweating  brow. 


166 


He  strikes,  and  shining  swords  and  ruddy  shields 
His  quick  forge  yields 

For  those  who  fight  f       ibcrty  and  duty. 
Wreaths  of  victory  beb-jic- 
Forged  for  tlie  bold 

^d  fine-wrought  diadems  for  decking  beauty. 

He  strikes.     And  tabernacles  arise 
To  the  skies 

For  the  Penates  and  their  sacred  rites. 
Here  are  altars  and  tripods 
For  the  gods, 

Vases  and  garnitures  for  banquet  nights. 

But,  for  himself,  he  shapes,  with  art, 
A  golden  dart, 

And  then  how  gaily  hurls  it  at  the  sun! 
He  watches  as  it  cleaves  the  sky 
So  high,  so  high! 

And  asks  for  nothing  more — his  task  is  done. 


; 


I 


1«7 


111' 


If^ 


'I 


* 


NOTES 


I 

i 


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I-         -,^4 


I.I     :\ 


*( 


NOTES 

The  numbering  of  the  translations  corresponds  to 
the  nutabering  of  the  poem>  in  the  complete  edition 
of  Ca.ducci's  poems  published  by  Zanichelli, 
Bologna. 

ALLA   WMA     (TO   RHYME) 
Third   Stanza:     Music    md    poetry   are   said    to 

have    originated    in    the    measured    movements    ot 

laborers  when  working. 

Fifth  Stanza:     Roland.  :i  hero  celebrated  'n  ch'v- 

alric  romance.     A  nephew  of  Charlemagne;  k.Ued 

at   Roncevale;  he  had  a  wonderful  sword  and  a 

magic  horn.  ^ 

Sixth  Stanza:  Rodrigo  Diaz,  a  celebrated  Cas- 
tilian  hero  called  the  Cid,  whose  exploits  at  arms 
were  celebrated  in  a  rhymed  poem  supposed  to  be 
the  oldest  in  the  Spanish  language.  Babieca  was 
his  black  mare. 

Seventh  Stanza:  "In  that  country  whence  runs 
the  Rhone,  where  lies  Toulouse,  there  flourished 
in  the  XII  and  XIII  centuries  the  Proven(;ale 
lyric  •  •  •  amorous  above  all.  Diz.  t^ard. 
Ei'ehth  Stanza:  Jaufre  Rudel:  A  French  trou- 
badour of  the  latter  part  of  the  12th  Century. 
Famous  for  his  fantastic  passion  for  the  Countess 
of  Tripoli,  whom  he  never  saw  until  he  was  dying. 

TO  THE   SONNET 

Torquato=Torquato  Tasso. 
6-7-8  lines— Michelangelo. 

Twelfth   line:     The  English   Virsil  is   Milton; 
The  Lusiad  Virgil  is  Camoens,  the  Portuguese  poet. 


171 


^itCSl^'^i.- 


"t 


NOTBS 

Of  Bavius  and  Maevius,  two  Latin  poets,  it  was 
said,    "Who   hates   not    Bavius,    loves   thy   vewe, 

Msvius." 

THE   SONNET 

The  last  line  is  not  a  vain  sequence  of  words,  but 
corresponds  exactly  to  the  great  masters  of  the  son- 
net.    Dante    (ecstasies),   Petrarch    (tears),   Tasso 
(perfume),   Alfieri    (ire),   Foscolo    (art). 
Ugo=-Ugo  Foscolo. 

HOMER — I 
Sacred      Scamander:     A      celebrated     river    of 
Troas,  rising  at  the  east  of  Mount  Ida,  and  falling 
into  the  sea  below  Sigaeum. 

HOMER — II 
"Agenorian    Thebes"    so-called    because    of    the 
claim    that   it    was   founded    by    Cadmus,    son   of 
Agcnore. 

Hercules  was  consumed  upon  the  summit  of  Mt. 
Oeta,  whence  he  rose  to  Olympus. 
HOMER — III 

Cumean  judges:  The  inhabiunts  of  Cumea 
werf  accused  of  stupidity.  Glaucus  (Iliad — 6) 
had  the  simplicity  to  exchange  his  suit  of  golden 
armor  for  one  of  iron. 

VIRGII. 

Ai  rhe  images  in  this  sonnet  are  Virgilian.  They 
s«r  -o  be  set  down  and  then  delicately  offered  to 
the      'Ct  himself  in  eulogy. 

"funere  mersit  acerbo" 
A  iucci's    brother.    Dante,    committed    suicide 
H-en  twenty-one;  his  son.  Dante  (grande  e  santo 

178 


■:.  ;iL^.^,^i^t 


NOTBS 

nome),  died  when  three  years  old.  These  were 
the  great  sorrows  of  Carducci's  life.  See  also 
"Pianto  Antico,"  written  one  year  after  the  baby  9 
death. 

FIESOLB 

Fra  Angelico  was  called  Fiesole.  Sylla,  or  Sulla, 
settled  Fiesole,  after  the  Gallic  and  Punic  wars, 
with  a  bodv  of  his  veterans. 

Eleventh  line:  The  Cathedral  at  Fiesole  was  con- 
secrated in  1028,  a  short  time  after  the  terrors  of  the 
millennium,  mafinificentiv  described  in  Carducci's 
Essay,  "Dello  Svolgimento  delJa  Letteratura  Nazi- 

onale." 

Mino  da  Fiesole:  No  other  sculptor  has  por- 
trayed mother  and  child  more  exquisitely. 

DONATELI-O'S   ST.   GEORGE 

The  church  of  Or  San  Michele  is  the  shrine  of 
the  trades,  and  all  the  niches  are  filled  by  statues, 
the  gifts  (■  different  guilds.  The  origmal  St. 
George  is  now  in  the  Bargello  and  is  replaced  m 
Or  San  Michele  by  a  copy. 

SAINT    MARY    OF    THE    ANGELS 

It  was  here  that  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  lived  for 
many  years.  It  is  said  that  when  he  saw  that  Death 
drew  near,  he  caused  himself  to  be  taken  to  this 
church,  and  for  love  of  poverty  lay  nude  upon  the 
ground,  with  crossed  arms,  and  died.  The  last  Ime 
of  the  sonnet  is  from  his  "Song  of  the  Creatures, 
which  was  written  in  the  Umbrian  dialect. 


173 


NOTBS 


DANTB 

Lucia.  Matclda,  Beatrice,  three  allegorical  figures 
of  the  Divine  Comedy.  Lucia  is  ilUiininatinR  grace, 
Matelda  the  active  life,  and  Beatrice,  theology. 

Frederic  Barbarossa  was  defeated  at  Val  D'Olona 
hv  the  Lombard  League.  (See  "On  the  Fields  of 
\L-irengo.") 

ANSOTATrNO    PETRARCH 

In   the  last  three  lines  of   this  sonnet,  Carducci 

(probably    refers   to    Petrarch's  c.inzone   beginning: 

"Italia  mia,  benche  '1  parlar  sia  indarno,"  addressed 

to  the   Princes  of  Italy,  exhorting  them  to  set  her 

free. 

"l   HOLD  YOUR  COUNSELS  IN  CONTEMPT 

I u venal  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  worshipper 
of  Ceres.  In  her  worship  wanton  lanrruage  was 
used,  in  the  endeavor  to  make  the  goddess  laugh. 

THK   SL'V    AND    I-OVE 

The  image  is  inspired  by  the  Cathedral  of  Milan. 

AN   EPIC  MOMENT 

Boiardo,  Ariosto  and  Tasso  lived  at  Ferrara,  and 
Tasso  was  imprisoned  there. 

The  Hcliades  were  sisters  of  Phaeton  who  wept  at 
his  death  until  the  Gods  changed  them  into  poplars 
on  the  banks  of  the  Po. 

MYTH   AND  TRUTH 

Mordrec  was  the  nephew  of  Arthur  of  Brittan' 
for  whom  he  lay  in  wait,  intending  to  kill  him,  but 
instead  received  such  a  powerful  stroke  from  Ar- 
thur's sword,  that  the  rays  of  the  sun  shone  through 
the  wound. 

174 


lii^EiiMi 


x^iJi^fS^ 


Notes 


MARTIN    LLTHER 

Luther  thought  he  was  tempted  by  a  personal 
devil.  In  later  life  he  could  not  keep  wicked 
thoughts  from  entering  his  mind  while  he  prayed. 
He  was  verv  wearv  of  life,  and  longed  to  die. 

"The  Gay  Pope."  Leo  X.  (liovanni  di  Medin, 
who  said,  'Since  God  has  given  us  the  papacy,  let 
us  enjoy  it." 

THE    PRESS    AND   THE    REFORMATION 

Luther  translated  the  Bible  into  the  Saxon  dia- 

Charles  V.  of  Spain  was  so  worn  out  by  his  fight 
against  Luther  and  the  Reformation  that  he  abdi- 
cated. 

NOW    AND    ALWAYS 

The  young  Nizzard  is  Garibaldi,  the  Genoese 
is  Maz7.ini.  Mazzini  is  buried  at  Staglieno  and 
Garibaldi   at  Caprera. 

BRINDISI    d'aPRII.E 

Ops  or  Opis  is  the  earth.  Bacchus  was  some- 
times called  "the  yT>gean."  He  was  instructed  by 
nymphs  at  Naxos,  an  island  in  the  /Fgean  Sea. 

PIANTO    ANTICO 

See  note  to  Funere  Mersit  Acerbo. 

TEDIO  INVERVAT.E    (WINTER   WEARV) 

Valmiki:  A  Hindoo  poet,  who  is  supposed  to 
have  written  the  Ramayana. 

BRTNDISJ    FL'NEBRE     (TO   THE    DEAO) 

See  note  to  Funere  Mersit  Acerbo. 
17.1 


Notes 


'( 


IN   CARNIA 

It  is  a  popular  tradition  that  Mt.  Tcnca  is 
peopled  with  fairies.  Carducci  has  incorporated 
the  legend  of  Silverio,  the  dammed  soul,  into  his 
poem. 

TO   ALESSANDRO    d'aNCONA 

D'Ancona  was  Cardura's  friend  and  rontempor- 
ary.  Carducci  says  in  a  note:  "This  po(  m  was  a 
premise  to  a  f ragmen t  of  the  Iliad  trarislated  by 
Ugo  Foscolo,  published  to  congratulate  D'A.  on  his 
marriage."  In  the  sixth  stanza  the  allusion  is  to 
the  custom,  learned,  if  not  pedantic,  of  publishing 
or  republishing  on  nuptial  oaasions  writings  of  the 
trecento,  documents  or  the  like;  \iseful,  certainly 
as  studies,  but  anything  but  opportune  or  graceful. 

Phtiotis:     Achilles'  birthplace. 

Thetis:     A.'s  mother. 

PRIMAVERE    ELI.ENICHE    (hEI.I.ENIC    SPRINGTIMES) 

Mr.  Bickersteth  says:  "Theocritus  is  Carducci's 
model  in  these  poems,  which  prepare  the  way  not 
only  in  their  spirit,  but  bv  their  metre,  for  the  Odi 
Barbari." 

I — BOLIA 

Carducci  begs  the  two  qreat  Aeolian  lyricists, 
Sappho  and  Alcaeus,  to  accompany  him. 

Third  Stanza:  The  most  celebrated  temple  to 
Apollo  was  at  Delphi,  and  \\as  ornamented  with 
magnificent  tripods — vases  three  feet  high  of  re- 
sounding bronze. 

Seventh  Stanza:  Mcaeus  was  deprived  of  his 
armor  as  a  punishment  for  cowardice. 

176 


NOTIS 


II — DORICA 


This  poem  is  called  Dorica,  because  the  poet  in 
imagination  takes  his  lady  to  Sicily,  among  Doric 
records  and  memories. 

First  Stanza:  The  "isola  bella"  is  Sialy. 
Galatea  was  a  sea-nymph  who  loved  the  shepherd 

Acis.  . 

Second  Stanza:  Eryx  is  a  magnificent  peak  in 
Sicily  on  which  the  Phrcnicians  built  a  temple  to 

Venus. 

Third  Stanza:  Pro^erpme  is  sometimes  called 
Ennea  because  Pluto  seized  her  on  the  plains  of 

Enna.  , 

Fourth  Stanza:     Alphcus  is  a  famous  river  of  the 

Peloponnesus;  the  God  of  this  river  fell  in  love  with 

the  nymph  Arethusa. 

Sixth  Stanza:     At  the  court  of  Syracuse  lived 

Pindar  of  Thebes. 
Eighth  and  Ninth  Stanzas:     These  are  a  direct 

translation  from  Theocritus. 

Tenth  Stanza:     "The  veil  of  Beatrice"  refers  to 
Canto  XXX.  of  Dante's  Purgatorio.     The  poet 

wishes  to  snare  in  his  Italian  tongue  (the  veil)  the 

forms  and  spirit  of  Greek  poetry. 

Twenty -fifth  Stanza:     Hylas  was  a  favorite  of 

Hercules;  he  was  enticed  away  by  the  nymphs  of 

the  river. 

Twenty-seventh    Stanza:     Hcsiod   was  bom   at 

Ascra  in  Boeotia. 

Twenty-ninth  Stan/a:  The  laurel  was  a  symbol 
of  protection ;  the  Greeks  kept  branches  of  it  before 
their  portals. 


177 


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■Si.c.«i»^^ 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART   No    2 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


32 


-  m 


115 


1.4 


III  2.5 

11= 
12.0 

1.8 
1.6 


j=     .APPLIED  \MAGE     \r 


Notes 


in — ALESSANDRINA 
So  called  because  it  accords  in  manner  and  senti- 
ment  with    the   Greek   poetry   that    flourished    in 
Egyptian  Alexandria. 

A  BRANCH  OF  LAUREL 

Fifth  Stanza:  "Enotrio  Romano"  was  the  name 
under  which  Carducci  first  published  his  "Hsmwi 
to  Satan." 

IDILLIO  MAREMMANO 

The  scene  of  this  poem  is  near  Bolgheri  in  the 
Tuscan  Maremma. 

Last  line:  "Trissotino":  See  Moliere's  "Fem- 
mes  Savantes." 

Note  to  Idillio  Maremmano  by  Carducci :  "Who 
does  not  remember  in  the  Third  Act  of  the  'Femmes 
Savantes'  of  Moliere  the  elegant  Trissotin  and  his 
friendly  enemy  Vadius,  two  immortal  portraits  of 
the  insincere,  dishonest,  literati  of  societies  and 
lodges." 

TO  THE   AUTHOR  OF   "mAGO" 

Severino  was  Severino  Ferrari,  friend  and  pupil 
of  Carducci,  and  author  of  a  satiric  poem  called 
"Mago,"  in  which  Biancofiore,  a  maid,  represents 
amorous  inspiration. 

THE  TWO   TITANS 

Prometheus  and  Atlas:  Prometheus  was  ex- 
pelled from  Olympus  for  stealing  the  fire  of  the 
gods.  Jove  then  tied  him  to  a  rock  where  a  vul- 
ture constantly  tore  at  his  ever-renewed  vitals. 
Atlas  was  compelled  to  bear  the  weight  of  the  sky 
on  his  shoulders. 

178 


Notes 


THE    LEGEND    OF    THEODORIC 

Thcodoric  was  the  king  of  the  Ostrogoths.  He 
took  Italy  from  Odoacer  and  distinguished  himself 
by  the  wisdom  of  his  rule.  His  death  was  said  to 
have  been  hastened  by  remorse  for  having  unjustly 
condemned  to  death  Symmachus  and  Bcethius.  Car- 
ducci  says  in  this  poem  that  he  has  joined  or  "con- 
taminated" two  legends,  the  Odinic  German,  the 
Catholic  Italian. 

DAVANTI   SAN   C'JIDO 

First  Stanza:  The  cypress  avenue  leading  to 
the  village  of  Bolgheri. 

Seventeenth  Stanza:  La  Titti  (for  Liberta), 
the  youngest  of  Carducci's  three  daughters. 

Nineteenth  Stanza:  The  reference  is  to  the 
cowled  monks  who  at  night  accompany  the  dead  to 
the  cemetery. 

Twenty-second  Stanza:  The  Sirventese,  a  kind 
of  song  made  by  the  troubadours  of  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  generally  to  satirize  the 
vices  of  society.  With  the  satire,  religion  and  love 
poetry  were  mingled,  making  a  curious  contrast. 

ON    THE    PLAINS    OF    MARENGO 

The  subject  of  this  poem  is  an  episode  of  the 
sixth  expedition  of  Frederic  I.  into  Italy,  told  and 
commented  upon  in  Quinet's  "Revolutions  of  Italy." 
(G.  C.) 

Frederic  Barbarossa  was  called  the  Mediaeval 
Caesar;  in  alliance  with  the  counts  and  bishops  he 
fought  the  Lombard  League.  Frederic  had  been 
repulsed  and  on  Easter  eve  his  army  lay  surrounded 

179 


Notes 

by  the  Lombard  League.  All  seemed  finished,  but 
the  German  Empire  was  saved  through  the  fascina- 
tion still  exercised  by  the  ancient  imperial  "Right 
divine"  *  *  *  "The  spirit  of  these  feudal  Re- 
publicans could  not  rid  itself  of  this  doctrine, 
*  *  *  and  at  sunrise  the  Italian  army  opened 
its  ranks,  giving  free  passage  to  Frederick  and  his 
Germans."     Quinet's  "Revolutions  of  Italy." 

FAIDA  COMMUNE   (COMMUNAL  STRIFE) 

The  foundation  of  this  tale  is  historical.  Cfr. 
Cronaca  di  Pisa  in  Rer.  ital.  Script.  Albertino  Mus- 
sata,  de  gest.  italic,  post  Henricus  VII.  C.  f.  Can- 
tilcne  e  Ballate,  Pisa,  Nistri,  and  others. 

THE   LULLABY  OF   CHARLES  V 

First  Stanza:  Margaret  of  Austria  was  not 
properly  widow  of  three  husbands,  because  to  the 
first,  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  she  was  only  affi- 
anced, never  married. 

Sixth  Stanza:  The  "fearless  one"  was  Charles 
the  Bold,  who  having  invaded  Lorraine,  was  de- 
feated and  killed  in  a  battle  near  Nancy.  He  was 
found  lying  dead  in  a  ditch. 

Eighth  Stanza:  Maximilian=Emperor  of  Ger- 
many, grandfather  of  Charles  V. 

Eleventh  Stanza:  Joanna=mother  of  Charles 
V. ;  she  v/ent  mad. 

Charles  V.  was  the  converging  point  and  heir 
of  four  great  royal  lines.  His  father  was  Philip 
of  Austria,  who,  being  the  son  of  the  Emperor 
Maximilian  and  Mary,  daughter  of  Charles  the 
Bold,    transmitted    to    him    the    possession    of    the 

180 


Notes 

Netherlands  and  of  the  hereditary  dominions  of 
Austria,  as  well  as  a  claim  to  the  imperial  crown 
of  Germany  at  the  next  election.  His  mother  was 
Joanna,  heiress  of  Ferdinand  of  Aragon  and  Isabella 
of  Castile,  joint  rulers  of  Spain,  who  handed  down 
to  their  grand -on  the  united  monarchy,  increased 
by  the  conquest  of  Granada,  by  the  addition  of  the 
two  Sicilies,  the  annexation  of  the  southern  part  of 
Navarre,  etc.     (Ency.  Brit.) 

TO   VICTOR    HUGO 

This  poem  was  recited  by  Carducci  at  a  banquet 
in  Bologna,  on  the  79th  anniversary  of  the  birth 
of  the  poet.  Written  in  French  Alexandrine,  a 
favorite  metre  of  Hugo. 

Twenty-second  Verse:  Alludes  to  the  conquest 
of  Asia  Mmor  made  in  278  by  the  Gauls,  one  of 
whose  tribes  encamped  on  the  ruins  of  Troy. 
(G.  C.) 

Carducci  visited  Trieste  m  1878  and  was  wel- 
comed with  enthusiasm  as  the  poet  of  Italia  irre- 
denta. 

CA   IRA 

"It  was  while  reading  Carlyle's  French  Revolu- 
tion," says  Carducci,  "that  vhe  idea  of  the  Qa  Ira 
sonnet  sequence  leaped  into  my  mind."  He  adds, 
however,  that  he  drew  the  material  for  the  work 
largely  from  Blanc's  and  Michelet's  histories  of 
the  Revolution. 

The  title  of  the  poem  is  from  the  song  Q^  IrSi 
composed  in  1790  by  a  street  singer,  later  claimed 


181 


1 


Notes 

and  sung  by  tlie  Liberals  as  the  expression  of  them- 
selves and  their  desires,  "(,'a  Ira,"  says  Carducci, 
"is  for  nic  but  the  historic  word  of  an  historic 
moment.  That  which  the  people  of  France 
promised  themselves  should  be,  became  a  fact  in 
the  September  of  1792."  And  again;  "When  I 
think  that  to  the  chanting  of  this  verse  (La  liberie 
triomphera)  were  destroyed  the  infamous  names 
of  conquest,  of  usurpation,  of  sacrilegious  fraud,  I, 
who  have  among  my  ancestors  those  who  fought 
the  French  Republicans  in  the  battles  of  Carrara, 
of  Montignoso,  and  of  Camajore;  I,  whose  grand- 
father lost  what  little  he  had  through  the  cursed 
Jacobins,  surprise  myself  by  singing  loudly 

'Ah,  <,a  ira,  ira,  ira.' 

And  woe  to  us,  if  they  had  not  triumphed.  The 
French  of  the  Republic  and  Empire  restored  to 
us  our  conscience  *  *  *  They  brushed  off 
the  dust  of  ante  chambers,  and  the  mould  and  must 
of  the  sacristy.  They  armed  us,  disciplined  us,  and 
with  many  kicks  behind,  if  you  will,  and  thumps 
before,  they  spurred  us  on  to  look  in  the  face  and 
to  attack  our  old-time  masters,  the  Germans  and 
Spaniards.  They  robbed  us  of  all  they  wanted  •  *  * 
but  they  left  us  the  example  of  a  wise  administra- 
tion." Thus  these  poems  of  the  triumphant  lib- 
erty of  France  exalt  indirectly  the  beneficent  effects 
that  it  had  on  Italy,  to  which  ef?ects  he  alludes 
directly  at  the  close  of  the  last  sonnet  with  the 
famous  words  of  Goethe,  after  the  battle  of  Valmy. 


182 


Notes 


The  action  of  the  poems  covers  the  period  from 
the  end  of  August  to  the  end  of  September,  1792. 

LXXXII 

The  French  provinces  designated  are  those  upon 
the  frontier,  where  the  invader  was  naturally  more 
to  be  feared. 

LXXXIII 

Jean-Baptiste  Kleber  rose  quickly  to  fir  t  honors 
in  the  French  army,  contributing  to  the  French  vic- 
tories on' the  Rhine,  etc.  His  portraits  show  a 
leonine  countenance. 

Louis  Desaix,  division  general  at  26  years,  fought 
admirably  upon  the  Rhine  and  in  Egypt,  perishing 
at  Marengo. 

Joachim  Murat,  fought  for  new  F'rance,  then 
under  Napoleon,  whose  sister  he  married,  and  who 
made  him  King  of  Naples.  In  defense  of  his  claim 
to  the  crown  of  Naples  he  was  shot  at  the  Castle 
of  Pizzo. 

Francesco  Marceau,  general  of  an  arm\  at  24 
years,  died  gloriously  and  happily  on  the  field  of 
battle  at  Altenkirchen. 

LXXXIV 

The  palace  of  the  Tuileries  was  begun  in  1564 
under  Catherine  de  Medici. 

It  is  a  popular  tradition  that  an  ancient  woman 
sits  and  spins  before  the  Tuileries,  before  any  great 
event  takes  place. 

LXXXV 
Louis   de   Lavergne  was   tried   by   court-martial 
after  the  defense  of  Longwy,  and  guillotined. 

183 


n 


I   > 


Notes 

LXXXVI 

Verdun  opened  lur  !4;ites  to  the  enemy  on  the 
2nd  of  September.  The  Count  D'Artois  was  the 
brother  of  Louis  XVI :  then  in  the  Prussian  camp 
with  emigrated  nobles,  in  arms. 

The  confectioner^^  of   V\"rdun  are   famouM. 

Nicolas  Beaurepaire,  who  commanded  the  garri- 
son at  Verdun,  killed  himself  from  shame  at  its 
surrender  at   2S   \ears  of  age. 

LXXVII 

The  black  flag  proclaims  that  the  country  is  in 
peril. 

It  is  said  that  findins^  himself  surrounded  by 
some  women,  anguished  and  infuriated  by  so  mucli 
sacrifice,  Danton  controlled  them,  first  by  inso- 
lence, then  by  moving  them  to  tears,  by  raising 
their  souls  above  their  personal  sorrow?.,  to  consider 
the  fate  of  their  country. 

Marat,  fervent  to  madness,  killed  by  Charlotte 
Corday. 

LXXXVI  1 1 

Druids=those  who  made  human  sacrifices. 

In  September,  1791,  Avignon,  which  for  cen- 
turies had  belonged  to  the  Papacy,  was  re-united 
with  France,  not  without  incredible  horror  and 
strife. 

The  reference  in  the  last  six  lines  is  to  the  heroic 
Mile,  de  Sombreuil,  daughter  of  an  old  general, 
who  drank  a  glass  of  human  blood  tc  save  the  life 
of  her  father,  condemned  to  death. 


184 


NOTBS 

LXXXIX 

The  Princess  of  Lamballe,  killed  September  3, 
1792.  She  was  asked  to  swear  love  for  Liberty 
and  Equality  and  complied.  She  was  asked  to 
swear  hatred  to  the  king  and  queen,  but  preferred 
to  die. 

XC 

Th"  "-nple,  where  Louis  XVI  was  imprisoned 
wa  ,cn  bv  Louis  VII  to  the  Templars  in  the 
XI  centun',  and  was  for  a  lon^  time  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Templars  in  Europe. 

Philip  Le  Bel,  King  of  France,  cruelly  persecuted 
the  Templars. 

The  persecution  of  the  Huguenots  began  on  the 
night  of  St.  Bartholomew,  1572. 

XCI 

Bayard,  Chevalier  "Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche." 
"Windy  Ga-d,"  because  of  the  prevailing  mistral 

winds. 

"Ill-entrenched."  This  was  the  sort  of  barri- 
cade used  by  the  Gauls,  in  the  war  with  Julius 

Dumouriez,  the  French  general,  who  showed 
himself  worthy  of  the  military  genius  of  the  great 
Conde.  "This  Dumouriez,  with  a  diploma  for  es- 
pionage, was  laken  and  adopted  by  the  Revolution, 
which  raised  him  high,  saying  'Be  my  sword 
(Michelet.)  Dumouriez  wrote  to  Pans  that  the 
Argonne  should  be  the  Thermopylae  of  France,  but 
that  he  would  be  more  fortunate  than  Leonidas. 


185 


Notes 

XCII 

Of  Kellermann,  Michelct  writes:  "He  was  not 
then  the  brave  but  mediocre  general  as  heretofore — 
for  this  day  he  wis  a  hero." 

Sansculottes — the  title  first  contemptuous,  then 
encomiastic,  of  the  citizen  soldiers  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. 

(The>e  note>.  are  principally  drawn  from  the 
Carduccian  Anthology  of  Mazzoni  c  Picciola. 


i.sb 


